A Judgment of Whispers by Sallie Bissell

files and want to check their addresses. Do not be threatening, but pay attention if anybody starts to sweat. Galloway, see what DNA you can pull off Saunooke’s cigarette butts. I’m going to talk to Jack Wilkins. He’s the expert on this case and he was right there at that tree yesterday.”
    Galloway sat up straighter. “You think he might be involved?”
    â€œNo way.” Whaley defended his former partner. “This case might be a monkey on his back, but he’s no crazier than any other old guy out to pasture.”
    â€œI’ll keep that in mind, Whaley,” said Cochran. “Remember, gentlemen, to walk softly. If the press gets wind of this, they’ll light it off like a rocket. Guess whose asses will be on the line then?”
    â€œJesus.” Whaley shook his head. “The rumor mill worked double-
time back in ’89 with just the newspaper. Now we’ve got Facebook and Twitter and Instagram and God knows what other social media shit.”
    â€œThat’s why we need to proceed quietly,” said Cochran. “It’s a brand-new world of misinformation out there.”

    The meeting broke up, each man heading off in a different direction. Whaley drove toward Salola Street, thinking of the four kids who’d once been their prime suspects. He’d kept up with them over the years. Devin McConnell had been a tough little Irish mick, the eldest of his parents’ endless litter of children. He now ran his father’s used car lot and had racked up a couple of domestic assault charges. Butch Russell, a pudgy redhead, had delighted in blowing up chipmunk holes with olive jars stuffed with gunpowder. He’d tried to join the police force but washed out of the academy. That he was now a campus cop did not surprise Whaley at all. Collier, of course, was an idiot, but had strangely been friends with Adam Shaw, the smallest and smartest of the lot. He and Jack had interviewed all of them, several times. Butch Russell, Devin McConnell, and Adam Shaw had admitted, under intense questioning, that they’d asked the girls to play strip poker, but all of them had refused. Scared and stinking of little-boy sweat, the three had sworn that Teresa had gone home about five minutes after the other girls. All Zack Collier had done was cry for his mother.
    With a heavy sigh, Whaley turned on to Salola and pulled up in front of the Shaw house. Empty tables were still set up across the front lawn, remnants of yesterday’s yard sale. As he parked his car he thought of the Shaws. Richard had been the hard-nosed chairman of some department at the college. His wife, Leslie, was a pretty woman who scuttled around after her husband like an acolyte with a priest. The son in question, Adam, reminded him of the cocky little shits from his own school days—the cool, funny ones who snapped towels at his butt in the locker room. Any of those assholes could have offed a little girl and just talked their way out of it. And so could Adam Shaw.
    He walked to the front porch and rang the bell. A small woman with bloodshot eyes pulled the door open. Though her dark hair was now gray and feathery age lines sprouted from her lips, he recognized her immediately. Leslie Shaw. Mother of Adam, wife of Richard. He looked behind her to see packing boxes lining the foyer of the house, along with huge, waist-high roles of Bubble Wrap. The hold-out Shaws were finally leaving too.
    â€œYes?” She squinted at his badge, as if the light was too bright. If she recognized him, she did not show it.
    Whaley drew up his great bulk. “I’m looking for Adam Shaw.”
    â€œAdam … doesn’t live here anymore.”
    â€œDo you know his whereabouts?”
    â€œNo.”
    Whaley felt a flash of impatience. Leslie Shaw wasn’t stupid. Did she not realize you couldn’t stonewall a cop anymore? Back in ’89 maybe, but not today. These days the police were far too