“Retirement,” Meadows said, and then smiled. “I don’t have a next move. I’ve been put out to pasture and these cold cases are all I have. Some on the force don’t even see it as a job, they see it as a hobby. No, I think I may be the last of the guys who truly care about things like honor and justice.” He took another drag off the cigarette. “You remember Kools? They found a bit of a Kools wrapper at the Walker crime scene. I had to research it but I found out they still make them.”

“No shit?” Beaufort nodded. “Menthol, right? Do they even make menthol cigarettes anymore? I never liked them.”

Meadows nodded back. “Menthol, unfiltered. My research showed that Newport is the most popular menthol brand nowadays.” He tapped the ash of his Camel onto the dish the bartender had put in front of him. “This is the cigarette a man smokes. Personally I always thought menthol-flavored cigarettes were for pussies. So for the Walker case, if I ever do find the killer or killers, and it’s not Smith and Hickock, I think they’ll be pussies.”

“If they’re even still alive.”

“If they’re alive.”

Beaufort thought this was going pretty well. He forced himself to relax what had become a tight grip on that beer bottle, and let his lower jaw hang down a bit so the muscle wouldn’t pop with nervousness. He told himself he was in a superior position, Meadows knew nothing about him, and didn’t appear to be a threat. He rubbed his palm on his jeans. When he looked up again, Meadows was looking at him with a glitter in his eyes.

“There’s one other thing I just discovered,” he said.

The way Meadows said that, it sounded like I’ve saved the best for last.

“What’s that?” Beaufort asked, wondering what could possibly top what Meadows had already given him.

“I recently heard something about a confession. It’s from Dick Hickock. And, get this, it contradicts anything that he and Smith said.”

A confession.

“Hey, buddy, you doing okay?” The expression on Meadows’s face, when he finally noticed it, had Beaufort wondering how long he might have been sitting there without answering that question. The answer bubbled up out of his throat. “Sure. Fine. Okay.” He didn’t dare risk raising the beer bottle to his lips.

“Seriously, you driving?” Meadows asked.

“No. I walked,” Beaufort said. He didn’t want to know but wanted to know. “What does it say?” he managed to ask.

“The confession? I don’t know yet. But what if he finally confessed to killing the Walkers? Man oh man, that would be something.”

“If it even exists,” Beaufort said.

Meadows nodded, his face looking downcast but his fingers drumming on the bar, drowning out Beaufort’s doubts.