One of those items was a single strand of red hair.
I grabbed the report and ran downstairs, where Donny was wearing a party hat and blowing out the candles on a cake shaped like an eighteenth hole. “Donny,” I murmured, “we have to talk.”
“Now?”
I pulled him into the hallway. “Look.”
I shoved the ME’s report into his hand and watched him scan the results. “You dragged me out of my own going-away party to tell me what I already know? I’ve already told you, Virg. Put it to rest.”
“That hair,” I said. “The red one. That’s not the victim’s. She was blond. Which means that there could have been a struggle.”
“Or that someone reused a body bag.”
“I’m pretty sure that Alice Metcalf has red hair.”
“So do six million other people in the United States. And even if it does happen to belong to Alice Metcalf, so what? The two women knew each other; trace evidence would transfer due to their interactions. This would only prove that at some point, they were in proximity. That’s Forensics 101.”
He narrowed his eyes. “I’m going to give you a little advice. No detective wants to be in charge of a town that’s on edge. Two days ago most of Boone was shitting bricks about crazy rogue elephants that could kill them in their sleep. Now everyone’s finally settling down again, since the elephants are leaving. Alice Metcalf is probably in Miami, enrolling her kid in preschool under a fake name. If you start saying this case might not have been accidental but actually a murder, you’re going to create a fresh panic. When you hear hoofbeats, Virgil, chances are it’s a horse, not a zebra. People want cops who keep them safe from trouble—not cops who go looking for it where it doesn’t exist. You want to make detective? Stop being Superman, and be Mary Fucking Poppins instead.”
He patted me on the back and headed toward the room full of revelers.
“What did you mean?” I yelled after him. “When you said it wasn’t your call?”
Donny stopped in his tracks, looked into the crowd of celebrating coworkers, and then grabbed my arm and pulled me in the opposite direction, where there would be no chance of us being overheard. “Did you ever wonder why the press didn’t go apeshit over this? It’s New Fucking Hampshire. Nothing ever happens here. Anything that smells like potential homicide is usually as irresistible as crack. Unless,” he said quietly, “people far more powerful than you or me inform them to stop digging.”
Back then, I still believed in justice, in the system. “You’re telling me the chief’s okay with that?”
“It’s an election year, Virg. The governor can’t win a second term on a zero-crime platform if the public thinks there’s still a murderer wandering around Boone.” He sighed. “That governor is the same guy who increased the budget for public safety so you could get hired in the first place. So you could protect the community without having to choose between a cost-of-living raise and a Kevlar vest.” He looked directly at me. “Suddenly, doing the right thing isn’t so black and white, is it?”
I watched Donny walk away, but I never joined him at the party. Instead, I returned to my desk and worked the last page of the ME’s report free from its staple. Folding it into quarters, I slipped the page into the pocket of my jacket.
I put the rest of the ME’s report in the closed case file of Nevvie Ruehl and instead pored over the evidence I had for the shaken baby. Two days later, Donny officially retired, and I got the teenage cheerleader to confess.
The elephants, I heard, adapted well in Tennessee. The sanctuary land was sold—half to the state in conservation, and half to a developer. After all the debts were paid, the remaining funds were managed by a lawyer to pay for the residential care of Thomas Metcalf. His wife never came back to claim any of it.
Six months afterward, I was promoted to detective. The morning of the ceremony, I dressed in my one good suit and took, from my nightstand drawer, the folded page of the ME’s report. I tucked this into my breast pocket.
I needed to remind myself that I was no hero.
“She’s missing again?” I ask.
“What do you mean again?” Jenna answers. She sits down in the chair across from my desk and folds her legs, Indian-style.
That, at least, cuts through the fog in my brain. I stub my cigarette out in a stale cup of coffee. “Didn’t she run off with you?”
“I’m going to say no,” Jenna says, “since I haven’t seen her in ten years.”
“Wait.” I shake my head. “What?”