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The man is a fool! Albrecht thought. If he ever had the chance

to put such a smile on Clarissa’s face, he surely wouldn’t cut the moment so short!

“You want top-side, or down below?” Charles asked.

“I’ll go down,” Albrecht said. As he backed into the hole, the last thing he saw was Clarissa, back on her knees in the garden. But in his mind, he could still see her delighted smile.

He’d give anything to bring a smile like that to Clarissa Wood’s face.

On Monday, Roelke dropped his application materials off with the village clerk on his way into work. Step one. Done.

When he got to the EPD, Chief Naborski called him into the office. “We’ve got autopsy results for Bonnie Sabatola,” he said, and pushed a piece of paper across his desk.

Roelke skimmed the report. Trajectory of the bullet was consistent with what the scene had suggested. Stippling on the skin confirmed that Ms. Sabatola had pressed the muzzle of the gun against her throat. The ME did find old bruises on Bonnie Sabatola’s arms consistent with a man’s hands, but no evidence of broken bones. The only medical records he’d been able to find pre-dated her marriage.

“She hadn’t seen a physician in any capacity since her marriage?” Roelke frowned. “That doesn’t feel right.”

“Any records of 9-1-1 calls?” Naborski asked him. “Any relatives shed light on what was going on?”

“Nope.” Roelke tapped his thumb against the chair. Bonnie had never called for help, never reported her husband, never been treated for unexplained injuries. He’d checked.

“You come up with anything when you talked to the husband?”

“The guy is pretty shook up. No way’s he faking that. But …”

“But?” The chief tipped his chair back and regarded Roelke.

“I’d like to push a bit more.”

“Why?”

“It’s a gut thing,” Roelke said. “Something’s off. Just because a guy grieves for his wife doesn’t mean he didn’t knock her around before she died.”

The chief shook his head. “Unless you can prove false imprisonment or something, you’re going to have a very hard time getting anything to stick.”

“I know,” Roelke admitted. “But I’m not ready to let go. I’ll take Sabatola the autopsy results, for starters. If I want to talk to anybody else after that, I’ll do it on my own time.”

The chief’s chair banged back down on the floor. “OK,” he said. “Just don’t let it get in the way of your primary duties. Eagle residents expect to see their officers patrolling the village.”

Residents and the Police Committee, Roelke thought, as he left the chief’s office. Roelke paused, then opened his locker. The small photo of Erin Litkowski, a pretty redhead, smiled serenely down from the photo frame on the shelf. She’d cut all ties with family and friends and simply disappeared—all because of her asshole husband-turned-stalker. After learning that Erin had gone underground, Roelke had done some extra reading about abusive spouses. He’d seen them, certainly. But the books had helped him get inside the abusers’ heads. Sometimes that helped him spot trouble before somebody ended up in the ER. Or worse, the morgue.

But not this time, he thought. He slammed his locker door and headed out.

_____

Markus had asked Chloe to meet him at The Swiss Historical Village Museum, which was operated by the New Glarus Historical Society. He was waiting in the parking lot, and bounded over when he saw her car. “Isn’t it a beautiful day?” he exclaimed. “I’ve more-or-less been headquartered here during my sabbatical. Have you toured the museum? No? I’ll take you around some time. The story of the Swiss community here is extraordinary.”

They drove to the Frietag farm in the Ford Fairmont Markus had rented for his stay. A child might have created the landscape with her smallest box of crayons: blue sky, white clouds, green fields, red barns.

“How was your staff meeting?” Markus asked.

“Painful as ever. We’re getting audited.” Ralph Petty, the site director, had been near apoplexy about it.

Markus frowned. “Audited?”

“It means