Rough Country

Rudolph, and they all sat down and Sedlacek asked, “What the heck happened up there?”
    Virgil ran them through it, both men listening closely, and when he finished, Rudolph said, “That’s a hell of a coincidence, if it’s a coincidence, but boy, it doesn’t feel like our guy. Our guy did it with a rope, up close and personal. Gun’s a whole different thing.”
    “Both wound up dead,” Sedlacek said.
    “Yeah, but I know what he means,” Virgil said. “I’ll tell you what: I’ve got all this stuff in my head, not much of it written down yet, so if it’s okay with you, I’d just like to go through your file and see if anything pops up.”
    “Okay with us,” Sedlacek said, “but, there’s not much there. I mean, all the reports and everything, but we never got the first hint.”
    “Pissed off Jerry,” Rudolph said. “He was good friends with Constance.”
    “Jerry’s the sheriff,” Sedlacek said. “He was pushing us like dogs.”
    “Did it look to you like somebody deliberately ambushed her?” Virgil asked. “Did they rob her? Rape her? Anything?”
    “Took her purse, so it could have been a robbery—especially outside her restaurant. Wasn’t raped or anything. Wasn’t beat up. Whoever did it jumped her with the idea of strangling her. Might have figured she was taking the day’s receipts home,” Sedlacek said.
    “But then they’d have to know about her,” Virgil said. “They’d probably be local.”
    “Pretty much,” Sedlacek said.
    Rudolph added, “The thing about Swanson is, it’s this tiny little town halfway between Cedar Rapids and Iowa City and it’s got seven businesses—one gas station, one restaurant, Constance’s, and five bars. It used to be where the kids went to drink, but we cleaned that up. But still, it’s a honky-tonk town, and a lot of folks still go up there for the atmosphere.”
    “Is that where the Spodee-Odee is?” Virgil asked.
    “Naw. That’s in Coralville, out on the strip. That’s right next door, here.”
     
     
     
    THEY TALKED for a few more minutes, then they gave Virgil a table and chair, and he spent an hour combing through a thick but nearly information-free file. All of the technical work looked good, but the technicians simply hadn’t found anything except one nylon fiber buried in Lifry’s neck, and more under a couple of broken fingernails, which suggested that she’d been strangled with a nylon cord.
    Which—except for one thing—was like discovering that the killer wore pants. Useless.
    When he was done, he carried the file back to Sedlacek’s office to ask about that one thing. Sedlacek asked, “Crack the case?”
    “I didn’t even bend it,” Virgil said. “One thing. The cord that Lifry was strangled with, nylon, I guess, but the ME says that it cut way into her neck muscles. You figure it was a guy?”
    “Oh, yeah. That oughta be in there somewhere, but that was our operating assumption,” Sedlacek said. “A guy with some muscle: she was not only strangled, she actually bled quite a bit.”
    “Doesn’t fit with us,” Virgil said. “We found those tracks, women’s boot or shoe . . .”
    “You breed some big women up that way.”
    “But none of the ones I’m looking at could do that,” Virgil said. “They’re healthy, but I don’t see them cutting somebody’s head off with a rope.”
    Sedlacek flipped his hands up. “Can’t help you. Anyway, you had anything to eat today? We could get a sandwich and head out to Jud’s. He’ll be there at one o’clock. . . .”
     
     
     
    THEY GOT A BURGER, fries, and a shake at a student bar. Virgil was wearing a Breeders T-shirt under his jacket and a thin blond woman, standing in line for food, leaned toward him and asked, “Are you a musician?”
    He grinned at her: “Nope.”
    “I really admire the Breeders,” she said. “Kim Deal is awesome.”
    “I’d give you the shirt,” Virgil said, gesturing across the table at Sedlacek, “but this guy’s a cop, and he’d probably bust me for exposure.”
    “Maybe I could give you a phone number, and you could drop it off,” she said. But she was joking, and she twiddled her fingers at him and moved up the line.
    “I’ve been working downtown for ten years and I’ve never been hit on by a college girl,” Sedlacek said, looking after her. “What have you got that I don’t?”
    “Good looks, personality . . . cowboy boots.”
    “Fuck me,” Sedlacek said. “I’ve been trying to get by on