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chipped light fixture, the king-sized bed with Truhler lying on top, his head turned so that he was facing the camera and clearly identifiable. Beneath him on the floor was the girl. She was also facing the camera. My eyes went from the photo to the floor, and for a moment I thought I actually saw the girl lying there, her lifeless eyes staring at nothing, her naked body surrounded by a dark red stain spreading across the green carpet.
    I closed my own eyes and tried to imagine the girl facing her killer as he moved toward her. I guessed that it had to be someone she knew, someone she would have allowed to get close enough to slash her throat. The killer would have had to come through the door. Would it have been locked? I turned to face it. There was no spy hole. If someone knocked, the girl would have had to open the door to see who it was. There was a door guard and chain with a chrome-plated finish that would have caused an intruder some trouble—if it had been set. I turned the knob, swung the door open, and then let go of the knob. Once open it did not close on itself the way many motel room doors do, yet once it was shut it locked automatically, which meant the girl had probably opened the door to her killer. Assuming she had been killed. More likely, I thought, she had an accomplice or two in the room with her all the time, helping set the stage for Truhler, snapping photographs until they got the shot they wanted.
    I leaned against the door, staring at the spot at the corner of the bed where the girl had fallen, and considered the possibilities. The blue carpet was well scrubbed and—
    “Wait a minute,” I said.
    I went to the spot and knelt, running my hand over the carpet. I looked at the photo and then the carpet and then set the photo on the carpet and looked at them both together. For an instant I felt a thrill of fear electrify my body. Up until that moment I was convinced that Jason Truhler had allowed himself to be victimized by a variation of the old badger game, and I couldn’t think of anyone who deserved it more. Now I wasn’t so sure.
    The carpet was green in the photo, my inner voice told me. Now it’s blue.
    *   *   *
    Daniel was sitting behind the counter and watching his TV when I entered the office. He switched it off and stood just as he had before.
    “Yes, Mr. McKenzie?” he asked.
    “I would like to talk about the room.”
    “You are not comfortable?”
    I leaned against the counter and smiled. The smile was from uneasiness. I was about to make some serious allegations, felt I had to make them, even though I knew that I was probably full of crap.
    “You replaced the carpet,” I said.
    “Yes,” Daniel said. The word came out slowly, like air from a tire.
    “It used to be green. Now it’s blue.”
    “You have stayed in room thirty-four before? I do not remember—”
    “When did you replace it?”
    “Why do you—”
    “Was it after the Fourth of July weekend? Following the blues festival?”
    “Yes, but—”
    “Did you change the carpet in all the other rooms?”
    “No. I—”
    “How many rooms did you replace the carpet in?”
    “Why do you ask these questions?”
    “Why did you replace the carpet?”
    “No more. I do not know why you ask these questions. You must tell me why you ask them.”
    “I have a friend who stayed in room thirty-four during the blues festival.”
    “Who is this friend?”
    “You tell me.”
    “I do not understand.”
    “The person who rented room thirty-four during the blues festival, was it a man or was it a woman?”
    Daniel moved quickly to a file box. For a moment, I thought I had him, but he hesitated.
    “It is against policy to reveal such information,” he said. “Why do you ask for such information?”
    “I have evidence that a murder was committed in that room.”
    “Murder?”
    A man walked into the office, a black bag slung over his shoulder. He was about thirty-five with deep brown eyes, an unkempt brown mustache