but there’s no feel of . . . violence in it,” Virgil said. “Of potential violence. At this point, I really don’t believe your son was involved in hurting her.”
“Of course he wasn’t,” George Tripp said. “It was that goddamn Flood, or Crocker, or both of them.”
“I’m going to look into that,” Virgil said.
He asked them to go through the contact list on Tripp’s phone; standing together, they did that, and identified each of the people on the list, including Sullivan, who, they said, had interviewed their son a half-dozen times.
“Everybody knew Bobby was going to be a college star. He could’ve gone to the Gophers, but they wanted to make a corner-back out of him and he didn’t want that,” George said. Wistful, now, with a glint of tears in his eyes: “He was going to be something.”
ON HIS WAY to the motel, Virgil threw the joints out the window—they were biodegradable—and crumbled the Ziploc bag into the trash. No need for Tripp’s parents to know about that.
He called Coakley from the motel, told her about the search, about the relationship with Baker, and about the “Liberty” note.
“Good: sounds like you’re getting somewhere,” she said. “I set up meetings with both of the female deputies for tomorrow morning. You’re not invited. I’ve been thinking about them since I left the office, and I already know they’re not involved. I’ll push them anyway, which means my popularity is going to take a hit, but I’ll do it.”
“You’ve got four years—I think pushing them now will be pretty small potatoes when you break these murders,” Virgil said.
“When I get done, to show that I trust them, I’m sending all of them out to the countryside around Battenberg, to talk to folks,” Coakley said. “The community out there is so sparse that somebody must know who Crocker was sleeping with—people know each other’s cars, and even if it was just seeing a car parked in his driveway, somebody knows.”
“Okay. I want to talk to Kelly Baker’s parents. There’s something going on there.”
“See you tomorrow,” she said.
HE MADE a late check with Bea Sawyer: “We got the pants,” she said. “We can see a snag and what could be blood, and from what you said, I believe it is. So does Don. There’s enough blood for a DNA check, so we’ll be able to nail that down for you.”
“Excellent. When will you be done?” Virgil asked.
“We’ve already shipped the body up to Ike in Mankato,” Sawyer said. “We’re going through the house now, but we’re about to quit. We’ll be back tomorrow.”
“You at the Holiday?”
“Nah, we’re staying at a little ma-and-pa place in Battenberg. Pretty handy,” she said.
“All right. I’ll see you out there tomorrow. Try not to destroy any evidence.”
He called Coakley back: “Got a piece of information for you: the crime-scene guys have a pair of uniform pants at Crocker’s, with a snag and a smear of blood. Probably Tripp’s, I expect.”
“Good. That really does take my other people out of it,” she said.
“Pretty much,” Virgil agreed.
TWO INCHES of snow fell overnight, kicked out of an Alberta Clipper that swung down through the state and just as quickly departed. Virgil could hear the winds coming up as he went to bed, and then the muffling effect of the snow.
He thought about God for a while, and the early and traumatic end of expectations: Bobby Tripp “would have been something,” his father said, and those expectations were now gone and might never have existed.
And he thought about the commonality of comfort, stretching back over the centuries and millennia, a guy lying alone in a warm space, listening to a clipper just outside the cave, igloo, hut, teepee, motel, whatever, a long thread reaching all the way back to the apes.
Then he went to sleep.
IN THE MORNING, he’d just gotten out of the shower when his cell phone rang, and Coakley said, “Why don’t we hook up at the Yellow Dog? Get some pancakes.”
“Half an hour,” Virgil said.
He got dressed, checked e-mail, packed up his computer, and put on his parka. The clipper had slipped away, and the day would be sunny but cold: he brushed the light, fluffy snow off the truck and, by the time he was done, could feel the sharp near-zero temps on his cheekbones.
He pulled into the café just as Coakley did, and she asked, as she got out of her truck, “Any more ideas?”
“I think you had the best one—go out to Battenberg and stir around, see