The meeting had gotten quite a turnout. People filled the bleachers on both sides. Folding chairs had been set up at each end. Many more were standing.

“I’m Ridgedale Chief of Police Steve Carlson. Thank you all for coming.” It wasn’t until then that I noticed the flyers making their way noisily around the room. “The purpose of this meeting is to update you on the status of our investigation into the death of an approximately newborn female infant found Tuesday morning near the Essex Bridge. There will be an opportunity for questions after a brief announcement. The infant remains unidentified, and we are still awaiting an official cause of death from the medical examiner. We do not believe this death is related to any other death.” That was in response to my story about Simon Barton, but I stood by its newsworthiness—anything that serendipitous was worth investigating, even if all I had was hysterical Harold as proof. “We are proceeding with an innovative program of voluntary DNA testing that we hope will expedite the identification of the baby.”

Well, that was carefully worded—as though the baby would be identified by the DNA samples of good, innocent people. In reality, the only person whose test results would matter would be the guilty party.

“As discussed in the flyers being distributed to you now, the test is painless and quick, takes less than five minutes. Nonmatching DNA samples will be discarded immediately and confidentially. To reiterate, they will not be kept in any kind of database. Details of where and when the DNA collections will take place are on the handout. We hope that you will all consider lending your help.”

There was rustling as people took the sheets, then a long pause as they read, probably having a hard time—like I was—digesting it. Especially galling was the fact that high school and college students were clearly intended to be included in the sweep of all Ridgedale residents age twelve and over. An asterisk provided that minors would be tested only in the presence of and with consent from their parents or guardians. A moment later, a bunch of hands shot up, and so did the amount of noise. People’s faces had darkened, along with the mood.

“You there,” Steve said, pointing at a squat man on the right side of the bleachers in an expensive-looking pumpkin-colored sweater. He was in his late forties, with thinning hair. By the time he stood, the sound had grown to a roar.

“Excuse me! Please,” shouted Thomas Price, an unexpected savior, but probably the only possible one. “We’ll all have to be quiet if anyone is going to hear!” Watching Price, I could see why the university had appointed him its unofficial spokesman: calm, authoritative, appealing. As a bonus, they could always claim he wasn’t an official university spokesman if things went badly. The volume dutifully dropped. “Thank you, everyone. Now, go ahead with your question, sir.”

“There are about a thousand ways a DNA sweep is one of the worst ideas I’ve ever heard.” The squat man looked wide-eyed around the crowd. “No one is going to consent, you know that, right? At least they shouldn’t. Trust me, I’m a lawyer. Don’t do it. At least talk to your own lawyer first. You’d be forfeiting your constitutional rights. Just because they’re saying they won’t keep the samples, there’s nothing to stop them.” He nodded back at Steve. “No offense. I’m not saying you personally. I mean in general.”

Steve glared at the man until he sat back down. Then he stayed quiet, eyes moving slowly over the crowd, letting the silence grow uncomfortable.

“No offense taken,” Steve said finally, working his jaw to the side. “And to be clear, you are all absolutely free to consult your attorneys or your accountants or your spiritual advisers before deciding whether or not to help. You can look inside yourselves and decide that having a Q-tip wiped across the inside of your cheek or your kid’s cheek is wrong on principle. It’s a free country, and that’s the meaning of voluntary: You get to choose.” The crowd was utterly still now. “But I would say this: When we found the baby floating in a creek like a piece of trash, she was stuck there, her neck hung up on a stick. I pulled her out myself, weighed almost nothing.” He was quiet again, this time like he was trying to gather his composure. “Principles are a luxury that baby’s never going to have.”

It was good theater. Impassioned, persuasive. And genuine. Steve obviously believed what he was saying. Of course, that didn’t make it true. The dragnet did sound unconstitutional, or at least potentially so.

Nonetheless, Steve’s speech had—as intended—succeeded in silencing public opposition. For an hour and a half afterward, people steered clear of queries about the DNA sweep. Instead, someone wanted to know more about Simon Barton. As he had with me, Steve dismissed the connection out of hand. Others wanted to know about some men on the local sex offender registry. Someone else agitated for precautionary fingerprinting in the schools, and another for an investigative neighborhood watch, focusing—it seemed—largely on Ridgedale Commons, the apartment complex that was the town’s de facto low-income housing. Thankfully, several others dismissed that idea as appallingly discriminatory. Steve brought the hammer down on it anyway. Dangerous and irresponsible vigilantism, he called it. And not long after that, he called a stop to all of it.

“Looks like we’ll have to wrap this up for now.” Steve’s voice was hoarse from all the talking as he pointed to a huge clock high on the wall. “University was kind enough to let us use their facilities, but I did promise we’d be cleared out by nine p.m., and we’ve already gone twenty minutes past that.”

There was some displeased grumbling as people stood and slowly began to disperse. Some didn’t get very far, settling into large pods dotted across the gym floor, presumably to exchange theories and complaints. Others shuffled toward the doors. I turned to make my way over to Stella, whom I’d spotted in the distance, embedded with a group of high school moms and dads. I was hoping she’d give me a ride to my car. I wasn’t going to cross back over that dark campus alone, not with Deckler lurking out there.

“Stella!” I called as she and her group started to drift toward the door. She kept on chatting with a mother as she walked on; she hadn’t heard me. A second later, she had disappeared, lost to the crowd.

“Molly Sanderson,” someone said then. “Nice to see a friendly face.”

I was relieved to see Thomas Price walking toward me with a hand clasped around the back of his neck. He looked absolutely exhausted.

“Oh, hi,” I said, wondering how I could ask Price to walk me to my car without seeming needy or ridiculous. “How are you?”

“I’ve been better.” He motioned to the dispersing throng. “I wish the university president were here to see this—all these people. Maybe then he’d understand that this isn’t going anywhere anytime soon.” Price shook his head. “Anyway, other than that, I am very well, thank you. Yourself?”

“Okay. But can I ask you a question?”

“For you, anything,” Price said, then glanced away as though he’d inadvertently shown his hand. But when he met my eyes a second later, his expression was so guileless I wondered if I’d imagined it. “However, do consider yourself forewarned: my actual answers seem in maddeningly short supply today.”

“I ran into one of the Campus Safety officers on my way here—Officer Deckler?” How to accuse Deckler of sexual assault without accusing him, that was the question. Because not even Rose had put it in such distinct terms, and the files weren’t proof of anything in and of themselves; they were merely a compelling clue. A strong opening salvo. My strongest evidence was my overwhelming instinctual suspicion, exacerbated by Deckler’s incessant creepiness—hardly incontrovertible, either. “Deckler seemed overly interested in my conversation with you about Rose Gowan and the status of my investigation in general. Do you know why that might be?”