THE SHERIFF'S DEPARTMENT had a fast line out. Anderson and a dozen other cops were in the building when Lucas and Del arrived, and came out to meet them. "Something happen?"

"We might have a name," Lucas said. "We need to send some pictures to St. Paul, right now."

Anderson's jaw dropped. He stood like that for a moment, looked at a deputy who'd trailed him in, and then said, "Well, Jiminy, who is it? You mean a name for the killer?"

"Possibly. Know in a minute, if I can get an Internet connection on a computer with a CD drive."

"I got one in my office."

Lucas followed him back to a big wood-paneled office with a blue high-pile carpet, seven-foot mahogany desk and a wall full of photographs. The sheriff with local politicians, his wife, his children, other sheriffs, cops. A computer sat on a side-table with an Aeron chair in front of it. Lucas dropped into the chair, brought up the computer, slipped the CD into the CD tray, and called up a Qwest connection. Ten seconds later, the best of the stitched photos was on its way to St. Paul; a minute later, another was on its way. Six deputies were crowded into the office now, and Lucas thought about the other BCA crew. He punched in Dickerson's number.

"Dickerson… "

"This is Davenport. Where are you?"

"Just outside of Armstrong. Thinking about heading home."

"We got a name. We're down at the sheriff's office. If the name is good, it ties together a lot of stuff. The money, the cell in the basement."

"What's the name?"

"Hale Sorrell."

Long pause. "Oh, shit."

"HALE SORRELL?" ANDERSON demanded when Lucas rang off. "You mean the Rochester guy?"

Lucas nodded, leaned back in the chair, crossed his legs. "Daughter was kidnapped last month and never came back," he said. "We're not sure yet, but it's a possibility."

"You got pictures of him?" one of the deputies asked.

"We've got these pictures," Lucas said, tapping a photograph on the monitor screen. "They're not good, but they might be good enough. Once we get a solid maybe, and some DNA returns back from the medical examiner, then we'll know."

"That means his kid is out at… might have been at… her… "

"She might still be out there, somewhere, at the house," Lucas said.

"Did you know Sorrell was from up here, originally?" one of the deputies asked. "I mean, not right here, but down to Red Lake Falls? His father still lives down there, somewhere. He's in a nursing home or something."

Lucas said: "That's interesting. Maybe somebody around here set him up?"

"Could be, I guess."

Another deputy said, "Maybe he was fooling around with somebody. Red Lake Falls is pretty much known for its beautiful women."

"That's always a useful piece of information."

LUCAS'S CELL PHONE rang and the governor was there. "Lucas. Neil brought me up to date on this Hale Sorrell thing. I know him pretty well, I looked at the pictures."

"What do you think?"

"Neil and I agree. It sure looks like him. Not positive, but boy, it sure looks like him."

"We have a lot of DNA, sir. If we can get somebody to officially point the finger, we could get a warrant for some DNA samples and settle it."

"The devil's gonna be in the details. We don't want to be wrong. If we had to, is there any way you could hang this on the sheriff up there?"

"The sheriff's a pretty sharp guy, sir," Lucas said, looking up at Anderson, who appeared confused, and mouthed at Lucas, Who is it? Lucas went back to the phone. "I think we could probably work something out, if we had to-but before we do anything official, I'd like to get some good photos of Sorrell, put them in a photo spread and show them to a woman up here who actually talked to him. If she IDs him, we'd be on solid ground asking for the DNA."

"That sounds good. I'll get McCord on it right now. There've got to be some publicity shots around. He's served on committees and so forth. Can we transmit them up to you?"

"I think so. You'll have to talk to the local people, I don't know exactly what the printing facilities are here… hang on." He took the phone down and asked, "Do we have a photo printer of some kind?"

One of the deputies said, "Sure. We've got two or three different kinds. Standard stuff."

Back to the phone: "We're good, sir. When your guys find a photo, send it up here to the sheriff's department."

"We can do that," Henderson said. "Man, you moved fast-this is exactly what I wanted. That asshole Washington hasn't even gotten out of Grand Forks yet. He's supposedly going up to the hanging tree to make a speech."

"Sir, we can't let that happen. It's really a bleak place-it looks like it was invented for a hanging. The image'll be so strong that nothing else will make any difference, nothing we say. Maybe we could keep him out of there on the grounds that it's a crime scene."

"Can we blame that on the sheriff, too?"

"I think it could be worked out, sir."

"Is he right there, listening?"

"Yes, sir."

"Let me talk to him. Say something that would lead to me talking to him."

Lucas nodded. "I think you should talk to Sheriff Anderson about that, sir."

"Good. Give him the phone."

Lucas passed the phone to Anderson, saying, "The governor. He needs to speak with you."

Anderson took the phone. "Uh, Governor Henderson… "

As Anderson talked, Lucas said to the group of deputies, "Is there somebody here who usually handles photo spreads? We'll need a half-dozen pictures of white men with dark hair, probably in business suits, looking charming. Like a political picture." He looked around at the pictures on the walls. "Like these. Like that one." He pointed a finger at a smiling head.

One of the deputies said, "We got that."

The rest of it took an hour and a half. Lucas was in a semi-frenzy, driven by the momentum of the day, and Dickerson arrived, running hot with lights and siren, wanting to be there if it all cracked open. Forty minutes after Lucas talked to the governor, the sheriff's ID division took the transmission of two recent photos of Hale Sorrell, one a formal portrait, the other taken at a press conference after the disappearance of his daughter.

A deputy put together two different photo spreads: one of dark-haired white men in informal situations, another of dark-haired white men in formal poses. Then he retransmitted all the dummy photos to himself, so they'd be printed on the same paper and have the same general look.

Hoffman was still on the job at the casino. Small Bear was on the floor, he said, pushing her change cart.

"Keep her there," Lucas said. "We're on the way."

LUCAS, DEL, AND Dickerson went with Anderson in a sheriff's truck, a comfortable GMC Yukon XL with a big heater. At the casino, Hoffman met them at the door. "Small Bear's upstairs," he said. "How're we doing?"

"Gonna find out," Lucas said.

Small Bear was sitting at a table in a conference room, her hands folded in front of her, looking a little frightened. Lucas explained quickly: "We have two sets of photos. We're gonna show you one set, then ask if you see the man who was here last night, and then we'll show you the other set. Okay?"

She nodded. Lucas spread the informal photos in front of her. She looked at them, slowly, slowly, pushing one after another away from her, until finally she was left only with Sorrell's. "I think this might be him. Not a very good picture."

"Okay." Lucas scooped up the deck of photos, put them back in the brown envelope they came in, opened a second envelope, and took out the formal shots. This time, Small Bear didn't hesitate.

"I'm pretty sure this is him," she said, tapping the photograph of Sorrell.

They all stood in silence, nobody moving, nothing audible but some breathing, and then Anderson groaned, "Jiminy," and Lucas turned and looked at Del.