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my things in here this weekend, if that’s okay.”
    He had presented me with a lease.
My prudent self had said I shouldn’t sign it, but my audacious self
had whipped out a pen, trumping the twinges that were running down my
spine as I signed it.
    Now, as I turned into the parking
lot of the police station, I wondered if I had signed that lease a
little too hastily. What did I really know about Marty, except that
his favorite tomahawk had somehow found its way into Eric’s scalp.

    Chapter
4

    Monday—Police
Station
    The murder hadn’t
made a big splash in Colton Mills, a hundred miles or so south of
Clayton County. Regional TV ran a short clip on the Sunday night news
and the Minneapolis paper had covered it briefly in its Monday
edition.

Reporter
Killed at Rendezvous Event
    Eric
Hartfield, a columnist for Minnesota Issues Review , was killed
Sunday in Prairie River Township, at the site of the annual Prairie
River Rendezvous. The Rendezvous is an annual event in which
participants portray authentic characters of a nineteenth-century fur
post.
    Hartfield’s
body was discovered in a sweat lodge that had been erected by the
Prairie River Band and periodically used for ceremonial purposes. The
apparent weapon was a tomahawk of the kind that Rendezvous
contestants use in tomahawk throwing competitions. The sheriff has
not named any suspects.

    So
far, my name had not surfaced as the one who had discovered the body,
and my hope was that I could remain unidentified. What I wanted most
was for the sheriff to return the “tools” he had confiscated,
because they held all my cameras and the envelopes of exposed film
and CF cards.
    When I arrived at the police station for my interview with the
Clayton County deputy sheriff, the police directed me to, of all
things, a bomb shelter under City Hall. “I’m Cassandra Cassidy,”
I said to the receptionist. “I’d like to see Deputy Shaw.”
    “ Deputy Shaw?” A hint of
amusement flashed across her fleshy face. “Oh, yes. You mean Deputy Sheriff Shaw.” She punched the air above her head with her forefinger.
“We’re short of space in the police station and had to give him a
room downstairs.” She pointed to a staircase. “Take that to the
basement, turn left when you get to the bottom of the stairs, and
walk to the end of the hall. He’ll be waiting for you.”
    The cold, clammy walls made me
shiver despite the hot day outside. I wrapped my arms around myself
and tried to relax on the flimsy folding chair where I sat next to a
gritty little table. It was impossible, of course. My mind churned
over the details of my experience, causing increased anxiety. When my
name was called, I actually stumbled into the smaller cell-like room,
which was furnished with nothing but two chairs and a decrepit wood
table, about the size of a teacher’s desk.
    My expectations for a quick and
routine interview were dashed in the first five minutes. The kindly
deputy from the Rendezvous had been replaced by one with a Perry
Mason complex. Far from being the personable small-town Barney Fife I
expected, Deputy Sheriff Bertram
Shaw went by the book. He had folded his scrawny six-foot frame onto
a dusty wooden chair, his pen poised over a clipboard. Before he
uttered a word to me, he rubbed his nose and made a face in reaction
to the room’s musty smell. Then, without any niceties, he began his
questioning. “How did you came to move into the house next to Mr.
Madigan?” His eyes were cold and his voice told me this was to be a
no-nonsense interview. I peered over his shoulder to avoid making eye
contact.
    “ I moved there because I liked
the accommodations.” My eyes caught sight of a spider web in the
corner of the concrete room, directly behind his right shoulder. I
wondered how long would it take the spider to drop onto the cardboard
boxes stacked helter-skelter against the wall.
    “ Did you know Mr. Madigan prior
to living in his rented house?”
    “ No, sir, I simply answered