Inside the office: Wavy Quinn’s blood on the desk blotter and some under Junior’s fingernails on his left hand. Also on the desk blotter: semen. Junior’s. More of the same in Wavy Quinn’s underpants, retrieved from a hamper at Junior’s house.

On Junior’s right hand: gunshot residue.

Valerie Quinn had GSR on her elbow and shoulder, but none on her hands. Her fingerprints were on the gun, but so were Liam Quinn’s. His were also on the five shell casings ejected from the gun and nine of the bullets left in the magazine.

On the other round in the magazine: Junior’s thumbprint.

Valerie Quinn didn’t shoot herself in the head holding the gun with her elbow, so some unknown party staged it to look like a murder/suicide.

Who was the unknown party? Junior? His print on that one bullet and GSR on his hand. He had an answer for both. He and Quinn went target shooting together and they both had nine millimeters. Assuming the gun at the garage was Quinn’s, Junior’s was in his kitchen drawer. Recently fired, he claimed, at a possum. Two of the bullets in that gun had Liam Quinn’s fingerprints on them. The gun also had Wavy and Donal Quinn’s fingerprints on it.

Toward the end of summer, when we hadn’t had rain in weeks, a farmer over in Belton County found Liam Quinn’s Harley Davidson submerged in an irrigation pond. It’d likely been there since the day of the murders, but it wasn’t until the water level dropped that the bike was visible. If that was the motorcycle the neighbor heard, who was riding it?

Not Junior, who was fooling around with the Quinn girl in his office when the motorcycle was ditched. I put it to him that he could have killed the Quinns and had time to get back to the garage.

“That don’t even make sense,” Junior said. “It’s not like Wavy’s aunt is gonna let us get married.”

“All I have is your word that Valerie Quinn was okay with you marrying the girl. And I got these two gals, Ricki and Dee, say Mrs. Quinn didn’t like you at all. The feds figure their testimony establishes motive for you killing her. And those gals are real eager to cut a deal.”

“First of all, Lyle Broadus says I only needed Liam’s signature. I didn’t need Val to sign nothin’. And second, Val didn’t like me, but she didn’t give a shit about Wavy, neither. She woulda let me do anything I wanted.”

“So, you were having sex with her while the Quinns were murdered?”

“No, sir. I wasn’t lying. We didn’t have sex.” That was what Junior said, but he covered his face with his hands when he did.

“I’m looking at the report, son. I got blood. I got semen. On the desk. In the girl’s underpants. Prosecutor says that’s enough to prove vaginal penetration and ejaculation. Sounds like you had sex to me. And the girl won’t talk to us.”

“Will you let me write her a letter? Let her know it’s okay to tell you what happened?”

I figured that couldn’t hurt, so I got him pen and paper.

Dear Wavy,

I’m really sorry about your mama. I know you must be pretty sad, but I was glad to hear they found Donal alright. I hope you’re taking care of each other. I’m sorry your birthday didn’t turn out better.

You know I love you, right? I love you all the way, so I don’t want you to be scared, whatever you hear. Probably I’ll be in jail for a while, but you don’t need to worry. I can take care of myself.

It’s okay for you to tell the cops what happened on your birthday. I know it won’t be easy for you to talk to them, but maybe you could write it down. You can trust Sheriff Grant, he’s a good guy. Go ahead and tell him what happened, answer his questions.

I love you and I miss you a lot.

Kellen

It was a nice letter. You could tell he was concerned about her, and he wasn’t coaching her on what to say.

When Mrs. Newling came in the next day, I let her read it.

“I’m not going to pass her love letters from that pedophile,” she said.

“I don’t see how it’s a love letter, just because the man tells her he loves her.”

“He raped her. I’m not giving her a letter from him that says, ‘I love you all the way.’”

“You may not like it, but this situation is different than if he was a stranger. I need the girl to tell me what happened and, if this letter will help me get that, I want her to read it.”

“No. I will not let the man who murdered my sister send her daughter letters.”

“You can’t have it both ways, ma’am. He can’t be up at the house with a gun at the same time he’s fooling around with your niece at the garage.” I took the note back from her, before she could tear it up.

“The FBI says he had more than enough time to get back to the garage, with time to spare to assault my niece.”

“That’s why I need her to tell me how long they were at the garage fooling around.”

“Stop saying that! They were not fooling around. He raped her.”

Mrs. Newling was like a terrier. In my office every day until I asked her who in Hell was taking care of her kids. It was like putting a match to gasoline. She pounded her fist on my desk and screamed at me.

“How dare you accuse me of neglecting my children? I am trying to make sure that my niece gets justice—that my sister gets justice!”

“Then make that girl talk. And then get her out of this dog and pony show. The longer you keep her here, the more likely it is some reporter’ll put her all over the front page. Is that what you want?”