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I let out a breath. “Given the recent news stories, I wouldn’t expect them to,” I remarked.

“Me, neither,” he replied. “So if anybodyisan Arc, they’re keeping it to themselves and are probably terrified, given what just happened to Ms. Butcher.”

“Whose case is that?” I asked him.

“Not mine,” he answered.

“Van Buren?”

“There are twenty of us,” he replied. “You really think more than two of us work homicide?”

“Has her death been ruled a homicide?” I asked him sharply.

He shook his head. “No, and I very much doubt it’s going to be.” Then he narrowed his blue eyes at me. “You think she’s another one?”

I sighed, resisting the urge to try to tug on my non-existent braid. “I don’t have a fucking clue,” I replied. “It’s high-profile, which would generally be an indicator that shewouldn’tbe, and she’s half-white, where both Tara Redsky and Gregory are full Indigenous. But she’s also a shifter possible-suicide.” I shrugged. “Hard to say, but with a case in the news, you probably want to make fucking sure it’s suicide.”

Smith’s brow furrowed. “I would,” he replied. “But it’s not my call.”

His blue eyes met mine, and I understood exactly what he was telling me. What was right and what was demanded by politics were two different things. And what some corrupt asshole wanted was a third thing altogether. The real question was whether this was column B or column C, or a little bit of both.

I nodded once to show I understood the position he was in.

Then the moment was gone, and he turned back to his notes. “I want to see the crime scene for the Crane murder,” he said, then, back to business. “And I’m going to need to clear you and probably the younger Mr. Crane in terms of fingerprints.”

“Mine are in the national police database,” I replied. “Although if it’s easier, feel free to print me again. I can call Elliot and have him come in if you like.”

“Will he be at the house tomorrow?”

“I can make sure he is,” I answered.

“That should be good enough.” Smith nodded to himself. “Anyone else that you know of go through the scene?”

“Henry Lamotte. And whoever worked it last.”

“I have access to everyone from here. If Mr. Lamotte’s aren’t on file, will he let me take them?”

I shrugged. “Henry has no love for white police,” I told him. “He’s had more than a few run-ins over the years, so his prints might be in the database, although as far as I know, Henry’s never been charged with anything.”

“Any idea why he was brought in?”

“Mostly protests,” I answered. “Henry was pretty active when he was a bit younger in tribal rights.”

Smith wrote this down. “So he’s Menominee?”

I nodded.

“Like the victim?”

“Gregory’s Ho Chunk, not Mamaceqtaw.”

“Excuse me?”

I shifted in my chair. “Mamaceqtaw is what the Menominee Nation call themselves. But Gregory’s from the Madison area. His wife, Naomi, was from here. Gregory’s Ho Chunk.”

“Oh.” He wrote this down. “Divorced?”

“Naomi died seventeen years ago. Cancer.”