“We’re not here about the flooding, Mr. McCullough,” I assure him. “We’d like to come in and ask you a few questions about Dale Michaels.”

“Dale, huh?” He grimaces. “I heard about the murder. Hell of a thing.” But he makes no move to invite us inside and I find myself hoping it doesn’t start raining harder. Talking to McCullough is going to be unpleasant enough without doing it with wet hair and cold rain pouring down my neck.

“Do you mind if we come inside, sir?” I ask.

He’s staring at me as if he’s afraid we’re going to force our way in and cart him off against his will. But after a moment he steps back and opens the door. “Might as well. Come on.”

We enter a living room that’s lit by a single lamp and the glowing screen of an old-fashioned tube television set. I get the sense of a cramped, claustrophobic room. It doesn’t take me long to realize McCullough is a hoarder. The room is jam-packed with every type of household item you can think of. Piles of clothing, shoes, and newspapers are scattered everywhere. A small plastic doghouse is shoved against the wall. Magazines spill from cardboard boxes with busted sides. The smell is worse than the mess, an unpleasant combination of a recently microwaved TV dinner, moldy towels, and a bathroom that hasn’t been cleaned in a very long time.

I glance over at Skid. He’s not exactly a neatnik, but he’s looking around the place as if he’s afraid of picking up some contagion. We’re standing in the entryway and there’s barely enough room for the three of us to face each other and speak from a comfortable distance. McCullough doesn’t seem to notice.

“You get the person who did it?” he asks.

“Not yet,” I tell him. “But we are following up on some pretty solid leads.”

He licks his lips, his eyes flicking to Skid and then back to me. “What kind of leads?”

I give him a pointed look. “Were you and Dale friends?”

“I knew him. A long time ago. You know, high school.” He gestures with the final word and I notice his right hand is missing at the wrist. The flesh is puckered with layers of scar tissue. He doesn’t appear to be self-conscious about it and makes no effort to conceal it.

“When’s the last time you talked to him?” I ask.

Same as Blue Branson, McCullough walks right into the trap. “It’s been a while.” He shrugs. “Seen him around town a few times.”

“Are you sure?”

“Well, I saw him at the grocery store. Gas station a couple weeks ago.”

“Mr. McCullough, Dale Michaels’s cell phone records show that the two of you had a conversation the day before he was murdered.”

His eyes widen behind the lenses of his glasses. For a moment he looks flustered. “Oh. That.” His laugh is forced. “Nearly forgot.”

“Why did he call you?” I ask.