Ten minutes later, armed with a cup of coffee, I’m at my desk in the spare bedroom, opening my e-mail program. Sure enough, I find an e-mail from T. Cardona. I click on the attachment and download a pdf file named: paintm-lOH_inquiry53367vsumrpt.pdf. One hundred and thirty-five pages of detail fills my screen. An endless stream of Victim Information, Types of Trauma Inflicted on Victim, Offender’s Sexual Interaction, Weapon Information, and dozens of other criteria. It’s going to take a lot of coffee to get me through all that information.

I start with Types of Trauma Inflicted on Victim. By noon, I’m wired on coffee, information overload, and a growing case of cabin fever. I try to stay focused on the case, but my thoughts stray repeatedly to John. Last night was an anomaly for me. Maybe it’s a remnant of my Amish upbringing, but sleeping with a man is a big deal to me. I can’t stop thinking about him. About everything we shared. And everything that was said.

Most people would condemn him for doling out vigilante justice. Though I’ve walked that fine line myself, I believe it’s wrong to take a life. But I know some anguish is too horrendous for the human heart to bear. Some crimes are too unspeakable for the mind to accept. For John’s sake, I hope he can find some semblance of peace.

At two-thirty a knock at the door yanks me from my work. I’m inordinately happy to find Glock on my back porch. “You know things are bad when visitors come to your back door,” I say.

“Don’t want to get those tongues wagging.” He steps inside, brushing snow from his coat. “Nasty out there.”

“Weather guy is calling for six to eight inches by morning.”

“Fuckin’ winter.” But his eyes are on my laptop humming on the kitchen table and the reams of paper surrounding it. “You look like you could use a break.”

I close the door behind him. “Anything new on the case?”

“We’re still at Hershberger’s farm, looking for evidence.”

“What do you think?

“Hershberger is fucked.”

At the counter I pour two cups of coffee. “You think he did it?”

“Evidence is overwhelming. The shoe we found belongs to Amanda Horner. Her mom identified it this morning. We’ve got underwear with DNA. We’re waiting to hear back from the lab.”

“Don’t you think all of that is kind of convenient?”

“There’s no way he could have possession of the shoe or underwear unless he had contact with the victim.”

“You guys check CODIS?” CODIS stands for combined DNA database system. Administered by the FBI, it’s a searchable database of authorized DNA files.

“Still waiting.”

I hand him a cup. “How are Pickles and Skid holding up?”

“Detrick has them out in the cold, digging around in pig shit.”

No pun, but I hate the idea of Detrick assigning the shit jobs to my officers, especially Pickles, who’s getting up in years. “Detrick pushing his weight around?”