There’s enough tension in the air to strangle a snake. I don’t need to look around to know all eyes are on us. Personality conflicts during high-stress cases are expected, particularly when more than one agency is involved. But I don’t want to be perceived as a cop who would jeopardize a case because of territoriality issues. I learned a long time ago the value of choosing my battles. This is a battle I’m probably better off not fighting.

“You drive,” I say, and start toward the door.

Dwayne Starkey lives on a small farm surrounded by rolling hills and tall, winter-dead trees. At one time the house had been nice, but as Tomasetti drives down the lane I notice the peeling siding and sagging roof. An old blue pickup is parked behind the house.

“Looks like he’s home,” Tomasetti says. “Keep an eye on the doors.”

He parks the Tahoe a few yards behind the pickup, blocking the driveway should Starkey try to make a quick exit.

“Do you think we should get a warrant first?” I ask.

“Don’t need a warrant to talk to someone.”

“If I like him as a suspect, I’ll want to search the place.” I look past the house where a dilapidated barn lists like a ship trapped in arctic ice. “I don’t want to screw this up. If he’s our guy, he could be doing the murders here.”

“If we like him, we’ll get the warrant.”

I glance at the back door in time to see the curtains part, then quickly fall back into place. “He spotted us.”

“I’ll take the front,” Tomasetti says.

Cold assaults me when I exit the vehicle. The sidewalk isn’t shoveled and my feet crunch through ankle-deep snow. In my peripheral vision, I see Tomasetti continue around to the front. I thumb the snap off my holster when I reach the back door. The top half of the door is glass. A crack runs through it and someone repaired it with duct tape. Dirty blue curtains gape about an inch. Through the gap I see an old freezer and circa 1970s cabinets.

I rattle the glass with my knuckles. “Dwayne Starkey! This is Kate Burkholder with the Painters Mill PD! Open up.”

I wait thirty seconds and knock again, harder. “Come on, Dwayne, I know you’re in there. Open the door!”

The door swings open. I catch a whiff of something vaguely unpleasant and find myself facing a small man with greasy hair, a receding hairline and a mustache the color of spicy mustard.

“Dwayne Starkey?”

“Who wants to know?”

“Kate Burkholder. Painters Mill PD.” Keeping my right hand close to my weapon, I pull out my badge with my left and hold it up. He stares at it long enough to make me wonder if he knows how to read. “I need to ask you some questions.”

“This about those kilt women?”

“What makes you think that?”

A hard laugh rattles from a cigarette-rough throat. “I know how you cops think. Somethin’ bad goes down and you want to hang it on the first con you see.”