Her jaw sets, telling me she is.
“You’ve been here almost three years,” I say. “That means you got here before Victoria disappeared. But Shawn arrived after. Long after.”
“Well, duh, he didn’t take them, obviously. That’s a whole separate case. He just took Nicki. This is why you are a lousy detective, Butler. You get hung up on a presumption—in this case, the presumption that one guy is responsible for all three women.”
“We have proof.”
“Then your proof is wrong.”
“It isn’t. So that’s your big revelation? That you think Shawn—the guy who was taken captive—is secretly the killer?”
“He told me he taught school down south. I asked what grade, since that’s what I used to do, too, and he blew me off, changed the subject.”
“You were a schoolteacher?”
“Are you listening to me, Butler? He wouldn’t even tell me what grade he taught, like it was some kind of state secret.”
“Because he probably didn’t teach. People lie here, Jen. When you said you were a teacher, he realized he wasn’t going to get away with his story, so he changed the subject. How exactly that makes him a killer—”
“He attacked that Roger guy to shut him up. Why is that not obvious to anyone but me?”
“Because you weren’t there. You don’t know what happened, and even without that, the timing doesn’t fit.”
“No, Detective, you’re just too stupid—”
“Ah, Jennifer,” a voice says as the door opens and Isabel walks in. “Never graduated from elementary school, did you? Still stuck with those playground insults. I’m sure Casey is terribly hurt when you accuse her of stupidity. What did Beth say your IQ was again, Casey? I can’t quite recall, but whatever it was, I think you can spare a few points for poor Jennifer and make all our lives easier.”
“Bitch,” Jen says and walks out.
Isabel sighs. “Someone really needs to teach her a wider vocabulary of insults.”
“Did you know she was a schoolteacher?”
“I try to forget it. I might not have much use for children, but I still shudder to think of their ordeal, learning under that one.”
“The first time I met her, that’s actually what I thought she looked like.”
“Then she started punching you, and you decided you must be wrong? Sadly, no. Now let’s forget Jen as quickly as possible and move on to less dismal subjects, like murder. Eric says you wanted to speak to me. I was popping in to tell you to come by the Roc when you have a minute. I’ll be working in the back.”
*
Have I considered Sutherland as a suspect? Yes. The thought had flitted through my mind, back when I theorized we might be looking at multiple perpetrators. But I’d had far more likely suspects, and then the evidence proved the same man who took Nicole also murdered Robyn and Victoria, which meant it could not have been Sutherland.
Yet I can’t seem to dismiss the idea. Maybe it’s the lack of other suspects. Maybe it’s the fact that my self-confidence isn’t quite where I’d like it to be, and someone like Jen can poke holes in it.
I hate admitting that. It’s like being hurt by the comments of an online troll. That’s what she is—a real-life troll, someone whose only pleasure in life comes from dragging others down. I know that, and therefore, it does not reflect well on me to say that her words have any impact.
I know I’m not stupid. I know I’m not incompetent. I know that Shawn Sutherland cannot have killed two women years before he even arrived in Rockton. It does not make any logical sense.
Yet it bothers me enough that I put aside logic and assess the case otherwise, working through each aspect as if he could be the perpetrator.
I don’t finish the exercise. Anders comes in, and I check my watch, see that it’s been nearly forty-five minutes since Isabel left. I hurry off to meet her. The wild theories can wait.
FIFTY-NINE
The Roc is locked. I expected that and brought the master key. It’s one of the few places in town that’s kept well secured. The sheer quantity of booze on hand could make even the most upright citizen consider taking a free tipple if the door was left open.
The Roc used to be open afternoons, but since Isabel’s lover—Mick—died opening time was postponed to 5:00 P.M. during the week. She says she needs to train someone to take his place, but she’s ignored everyone who asks about the job. She’s still grieving, in her way, and that way means she’s in no rush to find a new bartender.
While the Roc has a bar, I’ve never come here to drink. That would be unwise. Guys have no problem coming by for a beer even if they don’t wish to partake of the other offerings, but any woman who does the same sets up a dangerous expectation.