They entered the building. It was dated circa 1950, Rhyme estimated. Painted institutional green, the halls were decorated with finger paintings from a grade-school class, photographs of Tanner’s Corner throughout its history and a half-dozen employment notices for county workers.

“Will this be okay?” Bell asked, swinging open a door. “We use it for evidence storage but we’re clearing that stuff out and moving it down to the basement.”

A dozen boxes lined the walls. One officer struggled to cart a large Toshiba TV out of the room. Another carried two boxes of juice jars filled with a clear liquid. Rhyme glanced at them. Bell laughed. He said, “That there just about summarizes your typical Tanner’s Corner criminal: stealing home electronics and making moonshine.”

“That’s moonshine?” Sachs asked.

“The real thing. Aged all of thirty days.”

“Ocean Spray brand?” Rhyme asked wryly, looking at the jars.

“’Shiners’ favorite container—because of the wide neck. You a drinking man?”

“Scotch only.”

“Stick to that.” Bell nodded at the bottles the officer carried out the door. “The feds and the Carolina tax department worry about their revenue. We worry about losing citizens. That batch there isn’t too bad. But a lot of ’shine’s laced with formaldehyde or paint thinner or fertilizer. We lose a couple people a year to bad batches.”

“Why’s it called moonshine?” Thom asked.

Bell answered, “’Cause they used to make it at night in the open under the light of the full moon—so they didn’t need lanterns and, you know, wouldn’t attract revenuers.”

“Ah,” said the young man, whose taste, Rhyme knew, ran to St. Emilions, Pomerols and white Burgundies.

Rhyme examined the room. “We’ll need more power.” Nodding at the single wall outlet.

“We can run some wires,” Bell said. “I’ll get somebody on it.”

He sent a deputy off on this errand then explained that he’d called the state police lab at Elizabeth City and put in an emergency request for the forensic equipment Rhyme wanted. The items would be here within the hour. Rhyme sensed that this was lightning fast for Paquenoke County and he felt once more the urgency of the case.

In a sexual abduction case you usually have twenty-four hours to find the victim; after that they become dehumanized in the kidnapper’s eyes and he doesn’t think anything about killing them.

The deputy returned with two thick electrical cables that had multiple grounded outlets on the ends. He taped them to the floor.

“Those’ll do fine,” Rhyme said. Then he asked, “How many people do we have to work the case?”