“How?” Mike said. “This doesn’t involve interstate commerce, international terrorism, or anything else the feds would ordinarily investigate.”

“It involves the mail.”

“Easier said than proven,” the chief said.

“What about the state police?”

“We’d prefer to tackle this on our own,” Catfield explained. “This is a local matter, and I think we can handle it better without any outside interference.”

“Yeah, I can tell. You’re doing a hell of a job.”

“For your information, Mr. Albin, even if we did want to get the help of an outside agency, the state authorities require more than just a phone call before they get involved in a matter that clearly should be under local jurisdiction. Documentation must be provided, forms must be completed—”

“All of which are sent through the mail,” Mike said.

“Shit!” Doug stood up. “There has to be something we can do.”

The chief turned back toward the kitchen. “We’ll do what we can.”

The electricity was on, and Billy was upstairs watching his usual Thursday-night shows. The television was off downstairs, and both Doug and Tritia were reading—he an old John Fowles novel, she a new Joseph Wambaugh book. They’d told Billy what had happened, in simple nongruesome terms, but they had not spoken of the afternoon since then, and dinner had been marked by long silences and irrelevant conversation.

The phone rang and Tritia got up to answer it. “Hello?” She turned around and offered the receiver to Doug. “It’s for you.”

He put down his book, stood up, and took the phone from her hand. “Who is it?”

“Mike Trenton.”

He held the receiver to his ear. “Hello?”

“Doug? Mike. We found the bat. It was in a ditch down the street.” There was a pause, a beat. “It was covered with bloody fingerprints.”

Doug frowned. The news was good, exactly what they’d wanted, what they’d been looking for, hoping for, but the policeman’s voice was neither excited nor happy. It was flat, unemotional, devoid of any feeling. Something was wrong. Things hadn’t worked out the way they were supposed to. “What’s the matter, Mike?”

“The fingerprints are Giselle Brennan’s.”

Doug was silent.

“You still there?”

“Yeah, I’m here.”

“We took him in and held him, but there’s nothing we can do. We had to let him go.”

“He did it, Mike.”

“I know,” the policeman said. He was silent for a moment, and when he spoke again, his voice was low, conspiratorial. “Is it all right if I come over? There’s something I’d like to show you.”

“Of course. When do you want to come by?”

“Would right now be okay?”

“Fine.”

“I’ll see you in a few minutes.”

Doug hung up the phone and turned toward Tritia. “They found the bat used to rape Ellen, but the fingerprints on it were Giselle Brennan’s.”

“Oh, my God.”