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“Nah. But I’ll check closets when I get suspects.” He pulled a glove and an evidence baggie out of another bulging pocket and collected the button. “Will you document both these beds, please?”

Apparently I’d become a makeshift CSI tech. I didn’t really mind, but I found it abstractly amusing. I made a mental note, as I took pictures of the muddy bed, to text Mays. I was sure that he’d happily tell me everything I’d done wrong based on the photos. Who knows. Maybe I’d learn something.

There weren’t any obvious shoe-prints or anything that seemed particularly significant other than the tiny button, but I was excited nonetheless. I was hopeful—that dangerous thing with feathers—that Smith’s involvement meant that something would get done. That there was a chance at actual justice—as close as it was possible to get, anyway, within our flawed system—for Gregory Crane and the other victims of these men.

Apparently satisfied with the photos I’d taken, Smith gestured towards the house. “Can I see the scene?”

“Yeah, of course.” I led the way through the front door, pausing to take my hastily-thrown-on shoes back off again. “Shoes off, if you don’t mind.”

Smith was wearing a pair of old-school scuffed brown penny-loafers, complete with pennies stuffed into the leatherwork. It was oddly endearing, even with his wrinkled olive-tone khakis and a plaid checked shirt and grey sweater-vest revealed as he stripped off his heavy, bulky coat. He didn’t have a mask on, although he didn’t need one around either me or Elliot. Smith hung the coat on the tree and kicked off the loafers, revealing red and orange striped socks that clashed horribly with the yellow and blue of his shirt.

I didn’t know him well enough to give him shit about it, though. And, no offence to him, but I didn’t think I wanted this investigation to last long enough for me to get to know him that well.

So I said nothing, instead leading the way down the hall and into the house, headed for the back. It brought us past the kitchen, where Elliot looked up from his phone, chip in hand.

“Mr. Crane, I assume?” Smith stepped forward, holding out his hand.

“Detective,” Elliot replied, then looked a little guiltily at his right hand. “I’m afraid my fingers are covered in Dorito.”

Smith smiled and dropped his hand. “Quite alright. I’m sorry about your father.”

Elliot nodded. “Thank you.” They stared at each other for a beat. “Doritos?” Elliot offered.

Smith blinked, looking surprised that anyone would offer him chips. Then again, I couldn’t remember a single time the family of a victim had offered me food. It happened a lot on TV—cookies and tea and shit like that. But nobody had ever actually done so, and I was pretty sure I’d have remembered if they had.

“Uh. Thanks.” Smith stared into the bowl for a second, as though trying to figure out what to do with them.

Elliot ripped off a couple squares of paper towel and passed them across the island counter.

“Thanks,” Smith repeated, then put a handful of mixed Doritos on the towel before taking a broken piece and putting it in his mouth.

“No problem,” Elliot replied, clearly amused—to me, anyway. Elliot’s pretty quiet and low-key most of the time, so I wasn’t sure if Smith could tell that Elliot found him amusing or not.

“Mr. Crane—”

“Elliot. Please, detective.”

Smith bobbed his head once. “Elliot, then. What can you tell me about the night your father died?”

Elliot put his phone down and blew out a breath. “I was at home, working.”

“What do you do?” Smith asked, pulling out his tablet. He’d used his left hand on the chips and took notes with his right.

“I’m a carpenter.”

“Contractor?”

“No. I take commissions, mostly. Furniture and woodworking, restoration and repair. I do custom pieces, as well.”

“For a company?”

“I suppose, although I own the company.”

Smith looked up. “Under just your name?”

“Never saw much of a point in making up something else.”

“Here in Shawano?”