Bad Blood

guy,” Sullivan said. “I mean, six-seven or six-eight. Not real good-looking, but interesting-looking, like somebody had chipped him out of wood. Abe Lincoln.”
    “How old?”
    Sullivan fingered the rim of his ear, thinking, then said, “I can’t say for sure, but I’d say, older than Bobby. Twenties. Probably not thirty. Dark hair, wore it long. Not hippie-long—farmer-long.”
    “Huh,” Virgil said. “Thank you.”
     
     
    THAT WAS WHAT Sullivan had, and Virgil stood up to leave. “Give me one thing for my story,” Sullivan said. He reached over to the kitchen counter and picked up a narrow, half-used reporter’s notebook and a ballpoint. “Anything good.”
    Virgil considered, then said, “We think we’ve linked the Baker killing to the murders of Jacob Flood and Bob Tripp. I can’t tell you more than that. I will say that we’ve collected a variety of evidence, which is now being processed by the BCA lab, and we could get a break in a day or two. Chemistry takes time. But—I would like you to attribute this to an unnamed source, if you can. If not . . . I could take some heat.”
    “I can do that.” Sullivan scribbled in the notebook. “What about the evidence involving Bob in a homosexual affair?”
    “We don’t know that there was one,” Virgil said. “I guess you can’t libel a dead man, but what’s the point in saying that, until it leads somewhere?”
    Sullivan nodded and closed the notebook: “So—why are you looking into it? If it doesn’t matter?”
    “The sex in itself doesn’t matter, though it might technically be a crime, if there’s a disparity of ages, and depending on when Bob’s birthday was.”
    “Oh, horseshit . . .”
    “I’m just sayin’,” Virgil said. “But the main thing is, if this other guy was tight with Baker, he might know what happened to her, and who might have done it. You’ve given me enough information that I think I can find him. And if he is older, and if he was involved with Tripp when he was a minor, then we might have a handy little sex-crime tool kit for getting him to talk.”
    “But you’re not going to mess with him just because he’s gay.”
    “Look—I really don’t care what people do with each other, as long as everybody consents. And they’re old enough to consent,” Virgil said. “I’ve got more important things to think about. Like what to have for lunch.”
    “I knew you were a secret liberal,” Sullivan said.
     
     
    OUT IN HIS TRUCK Virgil called Van Mann, the farmer whose dog had bitten Louise Baker. “I’ve got a question for you, which I’d appreciate it if you could keep it under your hat.”
    “I can do that,” Van Mann said.
    “I’m looking for a guy who may be a member of the church. . . .” He relayed Sullivan’s description.
    “That’s probably Harvey Loewe,” Van Mann said. “He lives a couple of miles down south of me. He’s got an old farmhouse more or less across the road from his folks’ place. His folks are Joe and Marsha Loewe. Harvey’s probably twenty-six or twenty-seven. He would have been God’s gift to the Northwest High basketball team, if he’d gone to public school.”
    “Is Harvey married?”
    “No, I don’t believe so. Never really seen him with a woman,” Vann Mann said.
    “Thank you. And listen, keep it—”
    “Under my hat. I’ll do that.”
     
     
    VIRGIL CALLED COAKLEY: “You up?”
    “Not entirely,” she said. “I still got the boys to get out of here, and I’ve got to figure out my word for the day. Hang on—okay, it’s ‘porcine,’ which means related to pigs, or piglike. I have to use it five times, in context.”
    “I’m going to go interview the homosexual guy who had the affair with Bobby Tripp. I need to spot his place, and—”
    “Is he porcine?”
    “Not as far as I know. But if you could look him up . . .”
    “All right. And I’m coming,” she said. “Give me forty-five minutes.”
    “I thought you might be,” Virgil said. “Bring a gun with you.”
    “You think there might be trouble?” she asked.
    “No, but we’re cops, and I think somebody should have a gun.”
     
     
    VIRGIL WENT by the Yellow Dog for some pancakes. Jacoby came over with a cup of coffee and asked if there was anything new. “Not at the moment,” Virgil said. “But we’re pushing ahead.”
    “Let me know,” Jacoby said. He dropped the cup of coffee on the table and went to get the pancakes.
    Ten seconds later, a short, thin man with a