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into the front seat next to him.
    He greeted me once I had the seat belt fastened, “Ma’am,” and drove the short distance to the sheriff’s department. We entered through a side door opened with a key card, and I followed him to a well-appointed conference room. Large windows overlooked a colorful autumn hillside, while comfortable tweedy chairs surrounded an oversize walnut table. Clay waited next to the television and video setup. “Have a seat. You’ll be happy to know thanks to you we identified the body already. Notified the family.”
    “Glad I could help. By the way, have you been calling my room?”
    “No.”
    “Did you give out my room number?”
    “No. Why do you ask?”
    “Never mind.” I turned to the set.
    “We’ve been working on the Hillbilly rapes for months,” Clay said in an oddly rehearsed way. “This sort of thing reflects badly on our community.”
    Not to mention the poor victims .
    “We welcome your expertise and input to help identify the perpetrator.”
    There’s that elusive “we” again.
    “Let’s see what you can find on the Teri Johnson interview.” He used the remote to turn everything on. A striking blonde in her mid- to late teens appeared on the screen. She sat on one side of a stark metal table while a detective faced her on the other. The detective reminded me of the handsome actor Derek Morgan on the television show Criminal Minds . An open file rested in front of him.
    Clay handed me the remote. “Push this button to start, this to pause, this to reverse, and this to stop.” He hesitated a moment. “Did you want me to tell you why we were suspicious of her?”
    “Not yet. Let me watch this, make some notes, and then we’ll talk.”
    “Okay.” He moved to the door. “My office is just up the hall. Come and get me when you’re ready.”
    I gave him a half wave.
    As soon as he left the room, I started the tape. The young woman was speaking. “You remind me of a TV star or something. Are you, like, famous?”
    “No, ma’am,” the detective answered. “Are you okay? Can I get you something? Water, a soda . . .”
    “I’m fine.”
    “Thank you for coming down here today. You’re not in trouble, and as I said before, I believe you, but I need to be sure we have all the information we need to follow up on this.”
    “Sure.”
    He shuffled the papers in front of him. “Now, could you start at the beginning? Just tell me the same thing you said to me in the hospital.”
    “Sure. My boyfriend drove me home after going to a movie. Some kind of science-fiction flick. I hate science fiction, and this movie was really stupid.”
    My boyfriend? I jotted a note.
    “He and I were sitting in the car in front of my house and he started saying stuff like I was flirting with some other boys.” She waved her hand as if swatting away the comments.
    He and I? Another note.
    “Well, I wasn’t flirting. They were friends.” Her voice rose. “He’s so jealous. He saw a delivery guy drop off a box and he was convinced I was dating someone. That night he said some really mean things, like the rapist wouldn’t touch someone like me because I was too old and, like, well, he called me a bad name. I told him he was wrong and a pig, you know, stuff like that, and then, you know, sort of got out of the car.”
    I wrote her story as fast as I could, noting the cluster of “you knows.”
    She leaned forward. “He drove off, you know, and left me, didn’t even see if I was safe or anything—”
    “What time was this?”
    Bad interview technique, Derek Morgan clone. Never interrupt the witness .
    “About ten. It was dark . . .” She took a deep breath. “Do you think this will end up on TV? You know, like a special or maybe in the paper?”
    “Your name won’t be released, if that’s what concerns you.” He paused in his writing. “And I don’t think he knows where you live.”
    “Oh.” She absently played with her long hair. “That’s good. And I know