That afternoon, I run fingerprints from the gun locker, which is a far cry from the way I used to do it down south. I’m a technology-era baby. From my earliest experiences in a police department—when I told my parents I was volunteering at the Y—I saw fingerprints run on computers. I remember my disappointment at that. It seemed so dull compared to what I’d read in old crime novels. I also remember, when I became a detective, looking back and rolling my eyes at my younger self, unable to imagine the work involved in manually processing fingerprints.

Now I can.

It might be possible to process them by computer. Dalton has a laptop for when he goes down south on business. It will run here if I charge it from the generator. I could buy a scanner and input the townspeople’s fingerprints into a database and then find a program to compare them to crime scene prints. But honestly, with a small and constricted population, that’s more work than manually processing.

So, in this, as in many other aspects of my job, I have become that Victorian-era detective. I have my fingerprint powder and my index cards of exemplars. And I love it. Sure, there’s some misplaced nostalgia there. The public is better served by modern crime-solving methods. Yet I’m not sure that applies in Rockton, and I feel more like a detective when I dust prints from the gun cabinet, see whorls and ridges and say “That one’s mine, and that’s Will’s, and Eric’s, and Kenny’s . . .” without needing to consult my cards.

I’ve lifted all the prints and brought them home. I’m stretched out on my stomach on the bearskin rug. Storm has her head on my legs. She snuffled the cards once, withdrawing at an “Uh-uh” from me, though not before leaving a string of drool.

While I eliminated most prints at the site, I still lifted them to pore over here. Yet I’m not seeing any other than the ones I’d expect.

“The problem,” I say to Storm, “is overlapping prints. A computer is so much better at analyzing those.” I lift a card. “All I see is a mess of whorls. It’s like a reverse jigsaw. A very imperfect science. I hate imperfect.”

“Does she ever answer you?”

Dalton’s voice drifts in as the front door clicks shut.

I wait until he appears and say, “She’s not supposed to. She’s my Watson.”

He lowers himself beside me. “I thought I was your Watson.”

“Watson is the guy Holmes talks at. A sounding board to hear his theories and tell him he’s brilliant. You can do that last part if you like.”

“Better stick with the dog.” He reaches for the card I’d been examining. “Is it even possible to separate these?”

“With computers, there are algorithms. Even those are still works in progress. I can separate out the ones at the edges, but not once I get into the middle. I’m not sure this isn’t just busywork anyway. I’ve got enough smeared prints to suggest whoever took the gun used gloves. The stock is totally wiped down.”

“Which supports the theory that we’re dealing with a pro.”

“No, just a non-idiot. The fact fingerprinting works in any of our cases shocks the hell out of me. It’s not like it’s difficult to find gloves around here.”

He stretches his legs. “Think there’s any chance Phil’s right? That this could be the woman who flew Brady in?”

“On paper, she looks good. Trained soldier. Mercenary. She admits she removed his gag. If he got the chance he’d have offered her money. No doubt about that.”

“Because he knows she’s a mercenary.”

“Right. But how mercenary? Adjective versus noun. Just because she uses her army skills to make a living doesn’t mean they’re for sale to the highest bidder.”

“Yeah.” He scratches Storm behind the ears. “And there’s no chance she snuck into town without being noticed.”

“Young, female, attractive . . . yep, they’d notice.”

“Female’s enough for this town.”

I chuckle. “True. If the sniper was the pilot, why steal our gun? She’d have access to her own.”

“But framing us would still help. Set us chasing our tails looking for a shooter internally.”

“This is why you aren’t Watson. You come up with good ideas.”

Dalton rises. “Pretty sure Watson had some good ideas. Coffee?”

“Yet another good one.” I watch him start the fire to heat water. “Does Tyrone have military experience?”

“Ty Cypher?”

I sit up, crossing my legs. “Sorry. Mental jump there. Thinking about the pilot made me wonder who in town has military experience. That’s just Will and Sam, right?”

“Kenny was in Air Cadets.”

“Which is a youth group. I don’t think they train snipers. At least not in Canada. And Sam served in the navy.”

“That’s the one with water.”

“It is.”

“Any snipers?”

“The Canadian Navy has one destroyer, which is on its last legs. Lots of tugboats, though.”

“Uh-huh.”

“I think Sam was in peacekeeping.”

“So . . . snipers?”

“That’s one way to keep peace. But no. Not usually. I don’t think a military connection is the answer. Marksmanship doesn’t need that, though. Not by a long shot, pardon the pun. I’d like a list of our best shooters.”

“That’d be Will.”

I shake my head. “Good thing he was on the scene then. Otherwise, he’d be our key suspect, which is just awkward.”

“After him? The best shooter is you.”

“Even more awkward. Let me guess, you come after me?”

He taps his sling. “I am definitely out of the running. So that’s top three. Next is the militia.”

“Our boys like their target practice.”

“As do Jen and Nicki.”

“True enough. Are any of them good enough to make that shot, though?”

“Depends on what ‘that shot’ is,” he says. “I hate giving Phil credit, but there’s no way to say for sure that the bullet would have hit Brady.”

“Are you thinking maybe he wasn’t the target?”

“Who the fuck knows at this point? It seemed aimed at him. No one else was standing there until I got in the way. But would it have killed him if I didn’t interfere?” Dalton throws up his hand.

“If it didn’t kill him, would that have been intentional—trying to spook us rather than assassinate Brady? Or would it have missed because our shooter isn’t a crack shot? We could just be looking at a decent shooter with an overinflated sense of his—or her—skills. So . . . Ty?”

Tyrone Cypher was sheriff of Rockton before Dalton’s father. When the demotion to deputy rankled too much, he’d gone to live in the forest.

“Are you looking at Ty for this?” The wrinkle in Dalton’s nose tells me what he thinks of that. He doesn’t say it, though, just keeps making coffee in our French press.

“I’m looking at everyone for this. He was a professional assassin, though.”

Dalton snorts. “Hit man. There’s a difference.”

Which is true. “Assassin” conjures up an image that is not Tyrone Cypher.

“What’s his firearm prowess?” I ask.

“On a scale of one to ten? Negative three.”

I give him a look.

“I’m serious,” Dalton says. “The guy prides himself on not using guns. You know that.”

“So when he says he worked with his hands . . .”

“If Ty says it, it’s true. He’s serious about that, too. I’ve never actually caught the guy in a lie. Which, like you said, might not mean he never lies—just that he saves the falsehoods for the big stuff.”

“Has he ever said he can’t shoot? His comments about the military make Will think he served.”

“Tyrone doesn’t volunteer information. He’s never said he can’t shoot—he just chooses not to. The problem is motive.”

I rub my fingers together and then I realize the gesture means nothing in Dalton’s world.

“Money,” I say. “Ty killed for money before, and he doesn’t seem to have any moral qualms about doing it again.”

Dalton shakes his head. “I see where you’re going, but Tyrone doesn’t give a shit about money. Now, if they offered him a barrel of coffee creamer, maybe. But even then, it’d mean working for the council, and you know how he feels about that.”

“So you trust Ty.”

He makes a face as he passes me a filled mug. “I wouldn’t say trust . . .”

“We’ve been trading with him since last winter.”

“The man works for coffee and powdered creamer. Can’t beat the price. But trust him? He’s . . . What’s the scientific term? Loony tunes.”

I have to laugh at that. “True. He has his own special brand of crazy. But you trust him enough to trade with him, send him on scouting missions, and let him into Rockton.”

“As long as he’s escorted.”

“Only because you don’t want to freak out the locals.”

“Yeah, okay, sure. I trust . . .” He stops. “Fuck. I just stepped into it, didn’t I?” He sighs. “Where is this leading?”

“I’d like you to deputize Ty for a few days. I need information I can only get from the internet, and the only person who can fly out of here is you. It’s a lousy time for you to leave, but I think the need outweighs the danger. I’d like you to take an overnight trip to Dawson City, with a list of what I need researched. I’ll stay here and Ty can help guard Brady.”

Dalton snorts. “Because he’ll scare the ever-loving shit out of Brady?”

“Possibly.” I smile. “Ty won’t buy Brady’s stories. He might even be able to give us some insight into how likely it is that he committed these murders. Mathias knows one side of killers. Tyrone knows another.”

“It’ll take a day or two to find Ty. By then, Brady’s permanent residence will be done so I won’t mind leaving. What do you want online?”

“Everything you can get on these crimes he supposedly committed. Including whether they actually exist.”

“Actually exist?” He looks at me, his mental wheels turning fast. “Fuck.”

“Yep. I need information on the San Jose shootings, information on the Georgia murders, plus anything that can help us figure out whether Oliver Brady is responsible for either.”