They sat at the table, looking at each other for a moment, and then Virgil said, "Crocker."

"But why?" she asked. "When we brought them in, they acted like they didn't even know each other. I mean, Crocker lives all the way out in the west end of the county. He's closer to Jackson than he is to Homestead, so maybe they didn't know each other."

"So there's no motive, that you know of."

"Maybe a thin one. I've heard, but I don't know, that Crocker and Jacob Flood, the man Tripp killed, were childhood friends. But I know Crocker, and that seems so unlikely-for one thing, he's way too much of a chicken to do that."

"Did they have any contact when Crocker processed him in? I mean, if they did the body cavity search… Tripp might have thrashed around some."

"No. He was handcuffed during the search, and Ike says his nail was broken at the time of death. He's sure about that."

"Huh."

"You see my problem?" Coakley asked. "The guy who ran against me, who I demoted, I'm now going to investigate for murder, in what everybody, including most of the people in the department, think was a suicide," she said.

"I do see your problem," Virgil said. "Let me make a phone call." She made herself another cup of coffee, and Virgil got on the phone to his boss, Lucas Davenport. He outlined the situation, and Davenport said, "Go on down there. We bail her out of this, we'll own her."

"Not only that, but we'll solve a vicious crime," Virgil said.

"That, too. I mean, we can't lose, huh? I'll clear you out up here," Davenport said. Virgil put the phone down. "We're good to go. If you want to head out, I'll be a half hour or so behind."

"Why do they call you 'that fuckin' Flowers'?" she asked, leaning back against his kitchen counter and crossing her ankles. He noticed her cowboy boots had handsome turquoise details of the type called pigeon guts. "You seem reasonably straightforward to me."