He drove along Austin Street and through the center of town, passing Tudor-styled buildings that lined the quaint shopping area. He turned down a quiet side street and found Dr. Lockard’s home—a two-story, half-timbered structure that looked well maintained. He parked in the driveway and walked to the front door, where he rang the bell and wiped his sweaty palms on the sides of his khakis. When the door opened, Walt felt like he was in a time machine. Jarrod Lockard had not changed from Walt’s memory of him. The man still sported a head of wild white hair that looked impossible to tame even for the most experienced hairdresser. If this feature embarrassed the doctor, it didn’t show. Somewhere in his seventies now, the man’s face carried the same cavernous folds that curved like parentheses around his lips and accentuated jowls that drooped like melted frosting.

“Dr. Lockard. Walt Jenkins.”

Dr. Lockard’s lips twisted subtly, the closest he ever came to smiling. Walt remembered how none of the detectives at the BCI had ever been able to read Jarrod Lockard’s mood. His facial expression never veered far from stoic and carried a perpetual look of attending his mother’s funeral.

“Detective. It’s been a while.”

Dr. Lockard offered his hand. Walt took it nervously, remembering that shaking hands with Jarrod Lockard was like squeezing a wet sponge.

“Twenty years,” Walt said.

“They look to have treated you well.”

“You too.” Walt released his grip. “You honestly look the exact same.”

“So when we worked together two decades ago, I looked like a seventy-year-old man?”

“No,” Walt said, coughing and choking on an errant bolus of saliva. “I meant . . . you look . . .”

Dr. Lockard stared at him without speaking.

“Good. That’s all,” Walt said, looking for a way out of the awkward reunion. “You look good.”

“Was there something on your mind, Detective?”

“Yes. An old case we worked on together.”

The doctor nodded. “Come in.”

Walt followed him into the house.

“Have a seat,” Dr. Lockard said when they entered the kitchen.

The house felt quiet and empty and eerie.

“Can I get you something to drink? I’ve got coffee still warm.”

“That would be perfect,” Walt said.

Jarrod Lockard poured two cups of coffee and sat with Walt at the kitchen island.

“What is it that you need my help with?”

Walt took a sip of coffee and felt Dr. Lockard’s stare on him. He tried hard to control the irrational nervousness that came from sitting in the man’s kitchen.

“Do you remember the Cameron Young case?”

Dr. Lockard shrugged. “Cameron Young. My favorite dead author. I remember some of it. But that was a long time ago, and I’ve been retired for a decade now. I have trouble remembering where I left my slippers.”