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Again, that wee rustle in my subconscious. “Something about Stribbe bothers me,” I said.
“What?”
“I’m not sure. For the most part in that interrogation you did he seemed like a wimp. But now and then I’d detect a flare of—” Of what? “I don’t know. It was hard to get a take on the guy.”
“Ever see that docudrama on Jeff Dahmer?”
Monck had a point.
“Musgrove was cop-trained, and she was fit,” I said. “Whoever attacked her must have been strong.”
“Or wily and quick.”
“Maybe we’re trying to fit Stribbe into a mold we expect.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
Unsure, I said nothing.
“Okay, doc. Let’s play your game. If the serial isn’t Stribbe—the guy who speaks Hebrew and has masterful cleaver skills—then who?”
“What about the brother?”
“Dovid?”
“He seemed angry. And volatile. And had access to cleavers.”
“Uh-huh.”
Second flashback to a comment Musgrove had made.
“What about Glen Wall?” I asked.
Monck looked lost for a moment. Then, “The bartender at Polly’s Tiki Shack?”
I nodded.
“According to Musgrove’s notes, Wall had a solid alibi for the period Palke went missing.”
“Provided by his brother and cousins.”
Monk raised his brows.
I raised mine.
“I’ll recheck him, too.”
“What about Cloke?” Now I was reaching. “Why did Cloke travel to Provo repeatedly? People at FBI headquarters knew noth—”
“Or refused to say.”
“Cloke and Musgrove are both law enforcement.”
“Were.” Bitter.
“Might that be a connection?”
“Meaning Musgrove lied about not knowing the guy?”
