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maybe one of the big papers will pick it up. Somebody with some information might read it and call their local police. Then we can ask for mutual aid from those big departments. If I call them, they won’t be interested. We use all the state-wide stuff; computer identity and AFIS, DNA lab if we ever have any reason. The daily grunt work, door-to-door, follow-up on tips and interviewing witnesses we’re on our own. We’ll be better off with more people asking questions.”
    What Dodson is saying makes sense. AFIS, the automated fingerprint identification system, only compares prints on file. DNA testing only works if you have samples. That’s high-tech forensics. This is just boring repetition, knocking on strange doors. Cops—hell, all law enforcement, including the FBI—will call a press conference when they run out of leads.
    I’m sold. “OK. Send me the details with information on her family or background. I’ll tell Clarice. Thanks for the call.”
    That frisson, the hair on my neck doing a stand-up dance, gives me an all-over shiver. Of what? Fear? Anticipation? Anger? Maybe recognition that Clarice’s suspicions hold water.
    I hang up and sit for a moment, staring out into the newsroom. Clarice isn’t due in to work for another hour. I use the time wisely.
    I have my nails done.
    Over the years, I’ve learned that you get your information where you can. I started going to the trendiest nail salon in town when I married Brandon. It was a local who’s who of Monroe’s movers and shakers and a crash course into the place. Now I still get gossip and story ideas, but just spending an hour with a bunch of young women speaking Vietnamese is a respite. I don’t understand anything and don’t have to say anything, just let the voices roll over me.
    I use the window of time to sort out how I want to tell Clarice about the murder. Marshalltown had only one murder in the last decade. A local meth-head knifed his dealer and dropped the body down a mineshaft. The tweaker was picked up two days later trying to pawn the dealer’s watch.
    With two murders in a few days, I’ll have to work with Clarice to handle this assignment carefully. I don’t want to be accused of over-blowing this and start a frenzy about some serial killer loose in the foothills.
    When Clarice gets to work, the fax from Marshalltown and a “See Me” note are taped to her computer screen, the only sure-fire way I know to get instant reaction from a reporter. And I’m not wrong.
    Clarice drops her purse, cell phone, pager and keys in a pile, rips the notes off her screen and is breathless when she comes through my door, colliding with another staffer on his way out.
    “Now are you happy? I told you there was a lot more going on there! What’s Dodson hiding? What didn’t he tell us?”
    “Damn it, Clarice, slow down, stop.” I wave my fingers to help the almost-dry polish. “This is going to turn out fine, but we can’t go stomping around in his turf. He called me, was very nice on the phone, asked for our help in publicizing the murder. I really got the feeling that he’s one of those we can work with.”
    I recap my conversation with Dodson. I tell Clarice about the Bay Area connection because she needs to know the audience. Clarice is making notes.
    “OK. I’ll start with Boxer’s background, the background of the recent boom in the real estate market in the foothills, the background on San Juan County and the sheriff’s department,” she says, busy with her squiggles. “Can you get the intern, what’s-her-name, to do routine cops calls?”
    Even after a couple of years, I’m still amazed at Clarice’s cluelessness about basic office etiquette. “Her name is Shana. I’ll see if she has time,” I say.
    Clarice looks up at me as she’s dialing the San Juan County road department. She’s picked up the hint of sarcasm but doesn’t let it stop her.
    “Thanks,” and into the phone, “This is Clarice Stams from the Monroe