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thought that the unspoken truth was that Delaney had never had any training in proper interview techniques. He was old school, from the era when detectives mostly used intimidation to get information out of people.
    “Okay,” said Brendan. He decided it was time to get out his notebook. Usually he tried to keep the notebook out of any sort of questioning or interview, because it put a distance between him and the person he was talking to. They might feel reduced to a series of quotes, or he might miss something their body language told him. He didn’t need to jot down the word “meeting,” but he made a note to check the shed.
    He proceeded with a few standard questions. The kid was twenty-five, and the motorcycle was registered in his name. He was close in age to the victim – only two and a half years separating them. His address was Scarsdale, New York.
    “Did you drive the bike all the way up? That’s a long haul. You couldn’t have; not this morning.”
    “No, not this morning. I stayed in a hotel last night.”
    “You stayed in a hotel? Where?”
    “In Remsen.”
    Brendan looked off down the road, Route 12. Remsen was five miles south. He looked back at Kevin, whose eyes remained fixed on the house. “You didn’t just come straight here? Why stay in a motel?”
    Kevin shrugged. Brendan thought he wasn’t going to say anymore, when the kid added, “Our meeting wasn’t until nine.”
    “What was your meeting about?”
    Kevin closed his eyes. He reached up, and wiped his dirty leather sleeve across his face, smearing tears and dirt. Then he took his fingers and pressed them to the closed lids of his eyes. He sniffled. “It was just a meeting,” he said. “We had some stuff to go over.”
    “Like what?”
    He pulled his hands away and his eyes popped open. He gave Brendan a hard look. “Like personal stuff, okay? Private stuff.”
    “Okay,” said Brendan softly. “But when you say ‘meeting,’ it makes me think business.”
    “Well, that’s how it is. You wouldn’t understand, man. I can’t . . . fuck.” He closed his eyes tight and started to cry.
    “I want to understand. Can you help me understand?”
    Kevin covered his face in his arms and shook his head.
    Brendan was considering whether to let the point go or give it a second and keep pressing, when a vehicle on Route 12 slowed and turned down the driveway, crunching the dirt and small stones. It was a black SUV. The on-call mortuary service.
    Kevin lifted his head and opened his eyes. “Is that them?” he said standing up.
    Brendan stood up too. They watched as the vehicle parked and a man and woman got out. They opened the back doors and unloaded a stretcher.
    Kevin abruptly started walking towards the house. “I’m going to see her now. I’m going to see my sister.”

CHAPTER FOUR / THURSDAY, 10:13 AM
    State Troopers had arrived, along with more deputies from the next county, St. Lawrence. They had briefly organized and then spread out, heading off in all directions. Healy saw two troopers cutting a path through the corn, across the road where the farmer had been shooting an interloping rodent. It was almost ten o’clock. Healy doubted they would find anything, but it couldn’t be known whether the killer was hiding in the fields, or even on the premises. He could be in that big barn out back, or in that shed with the wide door, tucked away in the dark, waiting them out.
    The body of the young woman was brought out the front door. She had been zipped in a black bag. Healy stood next to the young man in the motorcycle jacket, Kevin. The man and woman from the mortuary service gently lifted the stretcher over the threshold and the step, into the dooryard. The black-bagged body wobbled a little.
    Kevin Heilshorn reached out, perhaps to touch the body, or to unzip it, and Brendan took hold of his arm gingerly, but firmly. Kevin relented. They walked alongside the gurney as it was trucked over to the SUV hearse.
    “Where does she