Jefferson Beauregard Trestlehorn wasn’t sure what progress he had made in the case today. Surely the estranged Brown family wasn’t directly connected to the three murders, but was it possible the letter from the ACLU had troubled some folks here in Lake Derry—to the degree of killing? He wondered how Ralph’s interrogations were going.

The station was unnervingly quiet without the Ridgways around; Jefferson had trouble focusing with only the buzz of the ceiling fan in his ears. Lunchtime was approaching fast and his hungry thoughts, distracted, shifted to the coroner from Brent. That city boy was due here hours ago.

The screen door slammed and Jefferson looked up to see a disheveled figure stumble in. The man was covered in rich red-brown dirt, his face streaked with the trails of tears. It was Larry Pillsbury.

“Mayor Larry!” shouted Jefferson, and was by his side in a moment.

Larry took a deep breath. “Jefferson, we gotta talk.”