Royce lit up a cigarette. Lillie joined him.

“So y’all had nothing?” Lillie said. “Not even some rumors or something to go on?”

“Sheriff Beckett must’ve paid out nearly a thousand dollars to informants,” he said. “Doc Stevens offered a big reward. Judge Blanton got some highway patrol folks to come over and look into things, taking the man’s description across the state. This shit looks bad for a town. Looks worse for law enforcement. It made the papers and the TV station in Tupelo. I remember for a few years they used to have a candlelight vigil on the Square. That lasted for a while and then I guess people just forgot about that Stillwell girl.”

Lillie tilted her head and bit her lower lip, cigarette still in hand. She flicked her eyes at Quinn and sat back in the duct-taped sofa.

“There was a second murder about that time?” Quinn said.

“Don’t recall that.”

Quinn nodded. He did not smile at the old man.

“You wrote the report,” Quinn said. “It was from July 6th of ’77. Man had been shot several times, his skull fractured, neck broken, and then his body was dragged out into the county and burned, his attackers probably trying to get rid of any evidence.”

The old man’s eyes narrowed at Quinn. He smoked a bit more and then stubbed out the cigarette under his old boots right there in his living room. “Something like that comes to mind. Sure. What of it?”

“Didn’t y’all think maybe these two events were connected?” Lillie asked.

“What do you mean?”

Lillie swallowed and took in a very long breath. Lillie Virgil had trouble with patience but could wrangle her emotions when needed. “Victim was a black male in his late twenties,” Lillie said. “Perp in the rape was a black male in his late twenties.”

Royce had a wide look of confusion on his face, sort of like a man you’d see lost in a big city, wandering around, trying to find something familiar.

“I just don’t know, doll,” he said. “I just don’t know.”

“It’s Deputy Virgil,” she said. “My name is Deputy Virgil.”

“And this was a long time back,” Royce said. “Wish I could be more help. Y’all want some pie? I got two old women who bring me more pie than a dozen men could eat. I think I got some chocolate and maybe some pecan? Y’all stick around. I think Gunsmoke’s gonna start again in a second.”

Quinn looked to Lillie. She frowned but stayed put. Royce had already stood, stranding between the couch and a cleared path through the junk to the kitchen.

“The report on the second crime was incomplete,” Lillie said. “And we can’t seem to put our hands on the evidence you logged.”

“Forty years ago?” Royce said. “Hell. Come on, let’s eat some pie.”

“Thirty-seven,” Quinn said.

“Long time.”

“Yep,” Quinn said.

“What’s it matter now?” Royce said.

“One of the victims has made an inquiry,” Quinn said. “A cold case always matters to those who’ve inherited it.”

“Kind of like shit rolling downhill?” Royce said.

Lillie nodded. She finished her cigarette, dropped it in a nearby Maxwell House can, and stood.

“Wish I could help y’all,” Royce said, “but I been retired for twenty years. Sure wish your uncle was still with us. He’d know. Lots of things he didn’t put in a report like they do now. He was a lawman, carried thoughts and ideas with him until he could follow through.”

“Until he ran out of time,” Quinn said.

“He was a fine Christian man,” Royce said. “What people said about him being on the take was pure and complete bullshit.”

“Appreciate your time, Mr. Royce.”

“Did y’all try and ever talk to Stagg?” Royce said. “I know y’all’s history, but he might know something that could help.”

“The thought had occurred to me.”

“I don’t think a man can fart in this county without ole Johnny T. Stagg knowing about it.”

Lillie walked out of the shack without a word, tugging on her sunglasses as they walked back to the Big Green Machine. “Hmm” was all Lillie said before Quinn cranked the engine.

“That wasn’t much help,” he said.

“Sometimes I forget how much I hate this fucking county,” she said.

“You don’t mean that.”

Lillie was quiet, mirrored glasses reflecting the road ahead.

Quinn removed his Beretta M9 at the door, locked it away in his Army footlocker, and took a seat at a long kitchen table with his mother and Jason. Jean had made fried chicken that night, along with collard greens and cornbread. She brought Quinn a cold Bud, knowing he wanted one before he even asked, Jean Colson never being the kind of mother to turn her nose up at her children drinking beer. She was a woman who bought wine by the box.

As they ate, they listened to Elvis’s Moody Blue album, a personal favorite of Jean’s. She especially liked “If You Love Me, Let Me Know,” a song she used to sing to Quinn and Caddy as babies and later to Jason.

“What happened to Boom?” Jean asked.

“He’s at The River,” Quinn said. “Caddy said he’d met a girl there.”

“If it’s the one I’m thinking about,” Jean said, “he better watch out. She’s a fast operator.”

“He doesn’t tell me much,” Quinn said. “Not about that stuff.”

“What stuff?”

“His personal life.”

“Y’all have known each other your whole life,” Jean said. “I find it hard to believe there are some subjects off-limits.”

Quinn shrugged. Jason refused to eat any collard greens, but seemed good with the chicken and cornbread. He sat right next to Quinn, pushing his small shoulder up under Quinn’s arm as he told him about some kids who’d been mean to him on the playground.

“How old are they?” Quinn asked.

“Old,” Jason said. “I think they’re in first grade.”

“That old?” Quinn said, chewing off a bit of fried chicken breast, still hot as hell inside and good and spicy. His momma did something with the meat before she cooked with milk and Tabasco. “What’d they say?”

Jason shrugged. “They said I smelled.”

“Why’d they say that?”

Jason shrugged. He looked embarrassed.

“What’d you do about it?”

“I said I’d kick them in the privates.”

Quinn started to agree with his nephew, but Jean held up her hand and gave him the eye. “You know what today is?” she asked, changing the subject.

“Wednesday?”

“It’s Elvis’s birthday,” she said. “You know he would have been seventy-nine?”

“You don’t say,” Quinn said. Jean going on again and again about Elvis Presley. Just part of the deal with having dinner with his mother.

“I bet next year they’ll have a big thing at Graceland,” she said. “But, for the life of me, I can’t imagine Elvis at eighty. I think maybe it’s best he died when he did and never had to get old. I saw him a year before he died. And, yes, he’d gained some weight. But that voice. That voice never left us.”

“No kidding, Momma,” Quinn said, having heard these stories since he’d been Jason’s age.

Jean pretended she was about to throw a drumstick at Quinn’s head. But she instead put it down and picked up her wineglass. Elvis had moved on into “Let Me Be There,” with the Stamps providing background vocals, J. D. Sumner giving a lot of bottom of soul. His voice something almost supernatural.

“He did this song,” Jean said. “I saw it. I heard it.”

“You knew Elvis?” Jason said, eyes brightening.

“I saw Elvis Presley seventeen times in concert,” Jean said. “He once touched my hand.”