“I think he may be investigating it before the week is out, whether he wants to or not. What about the sheriff?”

Mackey reaches backward and pulls his door completely shut. “Why do you have a bug up your ass about this? I don’t remember you as a flaming liberal.”

“I’m not. I’m a flaming humanist. I happen to care that some poor son of a bitch was blown to pieces and his family never saw justice done.”

A strange light comes into Mackey’s eyes. “I’ve got it now. You don’t give two shits about Del Payton or his family. You want a best-seller out of this. Maybe get yourself on Oprah’s book club? Penn Cage, whitebread crusader for justice.”

“Yeah, that’s it.”

Mackey draws himself to his full height, positive that he’s divined my true motive. Greed is something he can understand. “You may be willing to drag this town through the mud for a dollar. I’ve got more loyalty than that. Don’t come back here unless you’ve got new evidence in your hands.”

He goes back into his office and softly closes the door.

As I turn toward the stairs, I hear footsteps closing quickly on me from behind. I whirl and find myself staring at the black custodian who was standing at the broom closet before. He’s over sixty, with bluish skin and pink blemishes like freckles below his eyes, and he reeks of cigarettes.

“Keep walking,” he says.

I move toward the staircase, the custodian on my heels.

“I heard you ask about Del Payton. Mackey tell you all them files burned up in a fire?”

“Yes.”

“Some did, some didn’t. Everything that’s left is down in the basement. Five, six boxes.”

I stop on the landing. “Is the basement locked?”

“Yep.” He looks up and down the empty stairwell. “The door’s out back. If you was to check there in about five minutes, you might find a key. When you done, leave it where you found it.”

He shuffles down the stairs without another word.