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I blinked. “Really?”

Smith nodded. “The tribal community seems in general to be more accepting of Arcanids than the general population.”

“The white people, you mean.”

He frowned. “I… suppose.”

“Shawano is pretty fucking white,” I pointed out.

“I—yes.”

I gestured around us. “Case in point.” The bullpen wasn’t just lacking in Nids—it was almost entirely white, at least at first glance. There was one guy in plain clothes who looked like he could have been Latino, and a woman in a beat uniform who seemed to be mixed race, but literally every other person in the room with us was pale enough to be check-the-box Caucasian.

It’s small-town northern Wisconsin. Yeah, there’s diversity up here, but not as much as in other places.

The second-biggest racial demographic in the city was Indigenous—and they tended to become tribal cops rather than Shawano city or county. Because of the aforementioned lack of diversity in the general population.

Chicken, egg, vicious cycle.

“I see your point,” Smith acknowledged. “And while I know there are a few, for the most part people keep it to themselves. The question still remains—why not someone else?”

“Are they all white?” I asked, not bothering to sugar-coat it.

“Not all of them, no,” came the answer. “But some.”

“Any of the rest of them Indigenous? That don’t live on the reservation?”

I watched him think. “I can think of three. But I’ll look it up in the database, see if I’m missing anyone.”

Then we’d try to figure out of there was something that made Gregory different. Some place that he went or thing that he’d done that made him vulnerable or tied him to someone who might have expressed anti-Nid sentiments. Something. Anything.

“What about finding the connection to Tara Redsky?” I asked.

“If you went to school with her—”

“Not her. Her sister, Cammie.”

“Well, that’s a place to start. Their parents would have had some overlap with Crane because they both had kids that went to the same school.” He looked at me. “And if we can get some confirmations from the FBI on your other possible victims, that will help us to narrow things down even more.”

“Yeah. Believe me, I’m waiting with bated breath, too.” I sighed, then leaned back in the increasingly uncomfortable chair and crossed my arms. “Tell me what else we need.”

“Lists of places Crane went. Regular stores. Restaurants, if he was a regular patron. Coffee shops or whatever. Where did he go that people knew he would go again?”

“Other than groceries?”

“No, include those, too. Even which gas station he liked to use. Anything where we might find someone who would follow him home, check to see when he’d be alone. That sort of thing.”

I knew this. Or, at least, I should have. But being out of the force for the better part of a year meant that I was apparently getting rusty. Either that, or the fact that the victim was my best friend’s dad was fucking with my ability to remain detached. Or both.

“Right. I can have Elliot work on that. Although maybe Henry would be better. But Gregory lived alone.”

“No girlfriend?”

“Not that I know of. Henry would probably know if he did, though.” It was weird to think about Gregory having a girlfriend—anyone who wasn’t Naomi. I knew, objectively speaking, that people whose spouses died moved on. Dated. Remarried. All that shit. But it had just never occurred to me that Gregory Crane would ever date or marry again.

But what the fuck do I know?

As it turns out, not fucking much.