"No."

"Neither do I. Do you have any other theories except that she probably knew her killer?"

"One."

"What?"

"That I'm all wrong, that we are dealing with a psychopath or a serial killer."

He stood up to leave. He was overweight, constantly on a diet, and his stomach protruded over his gunbelt, but his erect posture always gave him the appearance of a taller and trimmer man than he actually was.

"I'm glad we operate out of this office with such a sense of certainty, Dave," he said. "Look, I want you to use everything available to us on this one. I want to nail this sonofabitch right through the breastbone."

I nodded, unsure of his intention in stating the obvious.

"That's why we're going to be working with the FBI on this one," he said.

I kept my eyes flat, my hands open and motionless on the desk blotter.

"You called them?" I said.

"I did, and so did the mayor. It's a kidnapping as well as a rape and murder, Dave."

"Yeah, that could be the case."

"You don't like the idea of working with these guys?"

"You don't work with the feds, sheriff. You take orders from them. If you're lucky, they won't treat you like an insignificant local douche bag in front of a television camera. It's a great learning exercise in humility."

"No one can ever accuse you of successfully hiding your feelings, Dave."

Almost thirty minutes from the moment the attorney, Oliver Montrose, had left my office, I looked out my window and saw Elrod T. Sykes pull his lavender Cadillac into a no parking zone, scrape his white-walls against the curb, and step out into the bright sunlight. He wore brown striped slacks, shades, and a lemon-yellow short-sleeve shirt. The attorney got out on the passenger's side, but Sykes gestured for him to stay where he was. They argued briefly, then Sykes walked into the building by himself.