Virgil nodded, and took out the color Xerox of the woman on the table. He handed it to Gerald Johnstone, who looked at it with his vague eyes, focused, and then seemed to shudder with recognition.

He said, "That looks like our funeral home. This is a funeral home in the picture, and it looks like our dressing table…but I can't say that I remember the case. It appears to be an automobile accident, is what I'd say. We had lots of those. Didn't have full funerals-just dress the body and ship it back to wherever they came from. So…I can't remember."

Virgil thought, He's lying.

Carol was shaking her head: "I'd remember it if I'd seen it, but I never saw it. Where did it come from?"

"I don't know," Virgil said. "I was hoping you could tell me."

She shook her head. "I was there, but I never saw that woman. Must have been a dress-and-ship. Whoever she is, she isn't local."

"Okay," Virgil said. Gerald Johnstone was still peering at the picture, replaying something in his mind, but again he shook his head. "I'm sorry," he said.

Carol Johnstone, Virgil thought, was telling the truth. Gerald Johnstone was lying through his teeth.

HE PUSHED the old man: "It's important that we know if it's your place or not," he said. "Is it your funeral home?"

"It could be," Johnstone said. "But the way the picture is…it's too close up. The table is the same kind we had, a stainless-steel Ferno. We don't have it anymore."

Carol Johnstone said, "That is our place, Jerry, before the remodel." She tapped one corner of the photo, the corner of an odd machine that looked like an oversized blender. "That's that old Portiboy, remember? I'm sure that's our place."

Gerald Johnstone shook his head: "I think it is, but I don't remember the case. We did hundreds of automobile accidents over the years, and I'm just…too old."

Still lying, Virgil thought. "When did you do the remodel?" he asked.

"That was 1981 into 1982. All new equipment by 'eighty-two," Carol Johnstone said. "Whoever that is, had to be killed before that. But the table and the Portiboy go way back. Before our time."

VIRGIL ASKED, "What about the man in the moon?"

Knew he'd taken a misstep. They were both mystified, and showed it. Carol said, "What?"

"Betsy Carlson said something about the man in the moon. That she'd seen the man in the moon. She seemed to think there might be a connection…"

Carol shook her head, but again, Virgil thought he saw a spark in Gerald's eye. Virgil said, "She told me, 'Jerry was there for the man in the moon, Jerry knew about it.'"

Carol was shaking her head, but Gerald's eyes drifted away as he said, "It's a complete mystery. What does it mean?"

VIRGIL, LOOKING DIRECTLY at Gerald Johnstone, said, "If you remember anything, you let me know. You called this killer a nutcase, and that's the exact truth of the matter. Keep your doors locked-if he thinks you might be involved in whatever is going on, you're both at some risk."

Carol Johnstone said suddenly, "This will sound silly…"

"Tell me," Virgil said.

"The night the Gleasons were killed, we weren't here. We're here two hundred fifty nights a year-we have a place in Palm Springs where we go in the winter-but that was one night we weren't. We were in Minneapolis, visiting our daughter, and seeing a show. When we came back the next day, there were police all over the street…"

"Ah, this is nothing," Gerald Johnstone said.

"I'd like to hear it anyway," Virgil said.

Carol nodded: "Anyway, we stopped and found out from one of the deputies what happened, and Larry Jensen came over and interviewed us, but we didn't have anything to tell him. We were gone. But when we first came in the door, the welcome mat was moved."

"Oh, Carol," the old man said, rolling his eyes.

"Well, it was," she said. "You know how I like everything neat, and it was off to the side of the door. I thought then that somebody moved it. Well, the Gleasons were killed in the middle of the night, and we were back at one o'clock in the afternoon, so…who moved it?"

"You think that whoever killed the Gleasons…?"

She shivered. "They were right there, down the street. We have timers on our lights so it looks like somebody's home, lights going off and on…Maybe…"

He looked directly at Johnstone: "If you remember anything, you tell me. We don't want somebody else to die."

"I'll think as hard as I can," he said.

"If it turns out you're lying to me, you could spend the rest of your life in prison, as an accomplice."

Carol got hot: "Hey! He's not lying. We'd do anything to catch this…monster."

"I'm just saying," Virgil said.

HE LEFT THEM at that-interesting, that Gerald Johnstone should be lying. He needed to track down the photo, and then he needed to come back and pound on Johnstone.

As he got back in the truck, he thought about the welcome mat being moved, sighed, dug his pistol out from under the car seat, and clipped it to his belt. He drove back across the coulee, went to the newspaper, and found Williamson sitting at his computer, writing.

He looked up when Virgil came through the door: "Hell of a story on the Laymons," he said. "I owe you a large one."

"You hear anything new on the Schmidts?"

"No. Damnit, if they were gonna get killed, I wish they hadn't done it on the day the paper comes out. We won't be able to print a word for a week. In the meantime, we're getting eaten alive by the Globe and the Argus-Leader." The Globe and the Argus-Leader were the dailies in Worthington and Sioux Falls.

"You can pay me right now, for the one you owe me," Virgil said. He looked at his watch; fifteen minutes to two. "I'd like to see the papers from 1970."

Williamson said, "We don't have them that way. Not whole papers. Back before 1995, they're on microfilm, and they have them at the library. If you have a name, it'd be in the clip file…?"

Virgil shook his head. "No name. I don't even know what I'm doing. Where's the library?"

"Just up the hill…Are you going to the press conference?"

"Wouldn't miss it for the world," Virgil said.

"Neither would anybody else in town. I don't know what Stryker's going to do-people are already starting to crowd into the courtroom. Won't be room for the reporters."

VIRGIL HUSTLED UP to the library, a flat red-brick building on the corner of Main Street. Inside, a pale-eyed, blond librarian with the smooth skin of an eighth-grader, took him to a microfilm booth at the back of the stacks. "I'll show you how to thread the microfilm. It can be a trial," she said. She went to a wooden file cabinet with dozens of small drawers, muttered, "Nineteen seventy." She pulled it open, took four boxes of microfilm out, and handed them to Virgil, then went back to the file and said, "Darn it. We're missing a box. Somebody has misfiled it."

He was interested: "Which box?"

She started sorting through them again, explaining, "We don't start a new drawer until the last drawer is full, and when I opened it, it was loose-so there's a box out somewhere. It looks like…" She stood on her tiptoes, pushed her glasses up her nose, looking into the drawer, and finally said, "We stop at the middle of May, and start again in September. So one box is missing. We have four months on each roll…Darn. I tell people to leave the refiling to us, but they don't listen."

"Could it be misfiled?" Virgil asked.

She pulled open a drawer from the nineties, that was only partially full of microfilm boxes. Checked them, said, "These are right," and then went through a bunch of empty drawers at the bottom of the case. She said, "I think it's been taken by somebody. I'll check these after we close-I have to work the desk-but I think it's been taken."

"I'd appreciate it if you'd check," Virgil said.

THE MISSING BOX intrigued him. The librarian showed him how to thread the film they had, and he looked at four months around Schmidt's mortgage loan, and in the quick review, saw nothing that struck him. No strange women in automobile accidents…