“She seemed to be dealing straight with us, but who knows? She’s lived alone for most of her life, could’ve developed some survival instincts.”

“If it was her, what are we dealing with? Schwinn’s last wish to wifey-poo? And that doesn’t explain why you were the go-between.”

“Same reason,” I said. “Schwinn covering his tracks. He pierced his ear but held on to a cop’s survival instinct.”

“Paranoid to the end.”

“Paranoia can be useful,” I said. “Schwinn had built a new life for himself, finally had something to lose.”

He thought about that. “Okay, put aside who sent the damn thing and shift to the big question: Why? Schwinn held something back about Janie for twenty years and started feeling guilty all of a sudden?”

“For most of those twenty years, he had other things on his mind. Bitterness toward the department, widowhood, serious addiction. Sinking to the bottom, like Marge said. He got old, kicked his habit, and bought himself a bunch of new distractions: remarriage, easing into a new life. Learning to sit still and stare at the stars. Finally had time to introspect. I had a patient once, a dutiful daughter taking care of her terminally ill mother. A week before the mother passed on, she motioned the daughter over and confessed to stabbing the woman’s father with a butcher knife as he lay sleeping. My patient had been nine at the time, all these years, she and the rest of the family had been living with the myth of the bogeyman—some nocturnal slasher. Her life had been a mass of fear and now she learned the truth from an eighty-four-year-old murderer.”

“What, Schwinn knew he was gonna die? The guy fell off a horse.”

“All I’m saying is old age and introspection can be an interesting combination. Maybe Schwinn started reflecting about unfinished business. Decided to communicate with you about Janie, but still wanted to hedge his bets. So he used me as a conduit. If I didn’t pass the book on to you, he’d have fulfilled his moral obligation. If I gave it to you and you traced it to him, he’d deal with that. But if you threatened him in any way, he could always deny.”

“He puts together a whole bloody scrapbook just to remind me about Janie?”

“The book probably started out as a twisted hobby—exorcising his demons. It’s no coincidence his later photos had no people in them. He’d seen people at the worst.”

We rode in silence.

“He sounds like a complicated man,” I said.