“You’re busy, I know. Let’s get to the nut of it. That was an expression of my mother’s. I thought it was about squirrels, hiding nuts. I never did find out what it meant. She had all sorts of great expressions. She was quite a woman.” His eyes scanned her face, dipped to her chest and belly, though not in a lascivious way, then back to her eyes. “I wanted to talk to you because you’re smart.”

“Smart?”

“I wanted to talk to somebody involved in this situation who’s smart.”

“There’re a lot of good people here, on the sheriff’s office staff.” She waved her arm, wondering if he’d follow the gesture. He didn’t. He continued to study her intently, soaking up images.

And that smile …

“Nobody as smart as you. That’s a fact and a half. And the other thing is you don’t have an agenda.” He grimaced and his brows furrowed even more. “Don’t you hate phrases like that? ‘Having an agenda.’ ‘Sending messages.’ ‘Drinking the Kool-Aid.’ Clichés. I regret saying that about the agenda. Sorry. Put it another way: You’ll stay focused on the truth. You won’t let your … let’s say ‘patriotism’ for Kayleigh mess up your judgment, like’s happened with the deputies here.”

She noted he was articulate, which she recalled was true of his emails as well. Most erotomanic or love-obsessional stalkers were above average in intelligence and education, though Edwin seemed smarter than most. Lord knew, if he was behind the killings, he was clever. This, of course, had nothing to do with a completely skewed sense of reality—like believing Kayleigh would actually be touched that he’d murdered her stepmother or a file sharer stealing her songs.

He continued, “Officers here, they won’t listen to me. End. Of. Story.”

“Well, I’ll be happy to hear what you have to say.”

“Thanks, Kathryn. Basically, it’s real simple. I didn’t kill Bobby Prescott. I don’t believe in file sharing but I wouldn’t kill anybody because they did it. And I didn’t attack Sheri Towne.”

He would have learned about the second and third attacks in the press. And she noted that he didn’t say, “or anyone with her.” The stories had not reported Dance’s own presence at the incident involving Sheri.

“You tell me that, Edwin. But everyone I interview denies the crime, even when we have them dead to rights—”

“Hey! Another expression of my mother’s.”

“I don’t really know you well enough to determine if you’re capable or inclined to hurt anybody or not. Tell me a little about yourself.”

Again, a knowing look, eerie. But he played along. And for five minutes or so he went through facts that she largely knew—his unfortunate, but not tortured, family history. His jobs in Seattle. His impatience with formal education. He said he often got bored in class; his teachers and professors were slower than he was—which might explain his checkered record at school.

He downplayed but didn’t deny his skill at computers.

He didn’t mention his romantic life, past or present.