"Could be Cash's."
"Not dripping down like that. It was fresh when she was hanging."
"God bless DNA," Del said.
ON THE WAY back to town, Lucas called Dickerson and filled him in. Then, "Did you get anything out of that motel room? Fingerprints, hair, anything?"
"We've got an ocean of fingerprints, but we've also got some places that appear to have been wiped," Dickerson said. "I wouldn't get your hopes up."
"Did you hear anything from St. Paul about tracking down the Cherokee?"
"If you go back a month, you can find maybe thirty Cherokee transactions in Minnesota. We've got the names on those, and we're working with North and South Dakota, Missouri and Iowa. I think Iowa's in, haven't gotten word from the others yet. I'm not sure South Dakota is computerized enough to get what we need that quick."
"Let's get what we can."
ABUNCH OF cops were leaning on the wall outside the Law Enforcement Center, smoking, when Lucas and Del pulled into the parking lot. Lucas had just gotten out of the car when his cell phone rang.
"Yeah?"
"Lucas, it's Neil. I got the list on those cards down here, and it'll be up there in the next couple of minutes. I don't think you have to waste a lot of time checking it out."
"Why not?"
" 'Cause I think I know who it is."
"What?"
"There's a guy on the list named Hale Sorrell. You remember him?"
"Sorrell? He's… oh, shit."
Del said, "What?"
Lucas ignored him, and asked Mitford, "Do you know him?"
"Yeah. I once tried to get him to give some money to our guy, on the basis that our guy was a rational conservative Democrat. Sorrell wasn't buying; he's a dyed-in-the-wool Republican. Seemed like an okay guy. Shitload of money from Medlux."
"Big guy, but not fat, big shoulders, dark hair, middle forties, glasses, this guy had a recent beard… "
"I don't know if he wears glasses, but he's at an age where he might. He's forty-six. He could grow the beard. Everything else is right on."
"I'm gonna e-mail you a photo. Maybe a couple of them," Lucas said. "Gimme an address."
"WHAT?" DEL ASKED, when Lucas rang off. "We got him?"
"Maybe," Lucas said. "Hale Sorrell? You remember?"
Del thought for a moment, then a light flared behind his eyes. "Oh, shit."
"That's what I said. Let's get this list. Maybe they got a T1 or a DSL line out of here, we can send the photos from here."
THEY CROSSED THE parking lot at a half-trot. One of the deputies pushed away from the wall and said, "Chief Davenport… you remember me?"
Lucas slowed down. He did remember the deputy, more or less. He'd beaten up the guy's partner a few years before, in a different county, but not too far away. "Yeah, I do," Lucas said. "What happened, you take a transfer?"
"Moved over here when Sheriff Mason retired. My folks live over here. Anyway, have you seen the TV? The news?"
"No. Bad?"
"Pretty bad. That little girl, Letty, she was terrific, but man, they took some pictures of those people hanging in the trees, and they're everywhere. They were on the CBS and ABC and NBC evening news, and they're on CNN almost full-time. They got video of the bodies sort of swinging in the wind."
"Aw, Christ."
"Then that Washington guy gave a talk down in Grand Forks and they had this video picture behind him with the bodies hanging, and it looked like he was standing in there with them, and he was screaming about lynching."
"Maybe we better figure this out in a hurry."
"I'm pretty sure you can do it," the deputy said. "I been telling the guys about you."
"Not too much, I hope," Lucas said.
"Yeah, I told them that part," the deputy said. "That's the best part. Uh, whatever happened to the girl? The girl that come up with you?"
"Marcy Sherrill. She's a lieutenant in Minneapolis, now. She runs the Intelligence unit."
"Really… jeez." The deputy was impressed.
"Gotta go," Lucas said. "Nice talking to you again."
As he and Del went inside, he heard the deputy's voice, "… got a pair of knockers on her like muskmelons and… "
"You got groupies," Del said.
"Groupie with a good eye for knockers," Lucas said, amused. "Muskmelons… those are cantaloupes, right?"
THE SHERIFF'S DEPARTMENT had a fast line out. Anderson and a dozen other cops were in the building when Lucas and Del arrived, and came out to meet them. "Something happen?"
"We might have a name," Lucas said. "We need to send some pictures to St. Paul, right now."
Anderson's jaw dropped. He stood like that for a moment, looked at a deputy who'd trailed him in, and then said, "Well, Jiminy, who is it? You mean a name for the killer?"
"Possibly. Know in a minute, if I can get an Internet connection on a computer with a CD drive."
"I got one in my office."
Lucas followed him back to a big wood-paneled office with a blue high-pile carpet, seven-foot mahogany desk and a wall full of photographs. The sheriff with local politicians, his wife, his children, other sheriffs, cops. A computer sat on a side-table with an Aeron chair in front of it. Lucas dropped into the chair, brought up the computer, slipped the CD into the CD tray, and called up a Qwest connection. Ten seconds later, the best of the stitched photos was on its way to St. Paul; a minute later, another was on its way. Six deputies were crowded into the office now, and Lucas thought about the other BCA crew. He punched in Dickerson's number.
"Dickerson… "
"This is Davenport. Where are you?"
"Just outside of Armstrong. Thinking about heading home."
"We got a name. We're down at the sheriff's office. If the name is good, it ties together a lot of stuff. The money, the cell in the basement."
"What's the name?"
"Hale Sorrell."
Long pause. "Oh, shit."
"HALE SORRELL?" ANDERSON demanded when Lucas rang off. "You mean the Rochester guy?"
Lucas nodded, leaned back in the chair, crossed his legs. "Daughter was kidnapped last month and never came back," he said. "We're not sure yet, but it's a possibility."
"You got pictures of him?" one of the deputies asked.
"We've got these pictures," Lucas said, tapping a photograph on the monitor screen. "They're not good, but they might be good enough. Once we get a solid maybe, and some DNA returns back from the medical examiner, then we'll know."
"That means his kid is out at… might have been at… her… "
"She might still be out there, somewhere, at the house," Lucas said.
"Did you know Sorrell was from up here, originally?" one of the deputies asked. "I mean, not right here, but down to Red Lake Falls? His father still lives down there, somewhere. He's in a nursing home or something."
Lucas said: "That's interesting. Maybe somebody around here set him up?"
"Could be, I guess."
Another deputy said, "Maybe he was fooling around with somebody. Red Lake Falls is pretty much known for its beautiful women."
"That's always a useful piece of information."
LUCAS'S CELL PHONE rang and the governor was there. "Lucas. Neil brought me up to date on this Hale Sorrell thing. I know him pretty well, I looked at the pictures."
"What do you think?"
"Neil and I agree. It sure looks like him. Not positive, but boy, it sure looks like him."
"We have a lot of DNA, sir. If we can get somebody to officially point the finger, we could get a warrant for some DNA samples and settle it."
"The devil's gonna be in the details. We don't want to be wrong. If we had to, is there any way you could hang this on the sheriff up there?"
"The sheriff's a pretty sharp guy, sir," Lucas said, looking up at Anderson, who appeared confused, and mouthed at Lucas, Who is it? Lucas went back to the phone. "I think we could probably work something out, if we had to-but before we do anything official, I'd like to get some good photos of Sorrell, put them in a photo spread and show them to a woman up here who actually talked to him. If she IDs him, we'd be on solid ground asking for the DNA."