Free Dark of the Moon by John Sandford

of the investigation.”
    “Another story from God, huh?” Williamson’s tongue touched his lower lip: he wanted the story. “Let me show you the morgue. We still call it that, here.”
     
    T HE MORGUE was the size of a suburban bedroom, painted a color that was a combination of dirt green and dirt brown. The walls were lined with oak library chests, with hundreds of six-inch-high, six-inch-wide, two-foot-deep drawers, surrounding a desk with an aging Dell computer. Williamson knocked on one of the cabinets. “We file by name and subject. Before 1999, if the subject is something with a hundred names in it, we file the five most important names to the story, and cross-reference to the subject. So if you’re showing a goat at FFA, and you’re thirty-third on the list, somebody would have to look under FFA to find your name, because we didn’t put it in the name file. After 1999, we stopped clipping, and put everything on CDs, cross-referenced by a reference service. You’ll find all names and subjects after 1999.”
    “Even if you’re thirty-third on the list?”
    “With a goat,” Williamson said. “I’d sit here and show you how to use the computer, but you can figure it out in five minutes and I’m on deadline. Instructions are Scotch-taped on the desk on the left side. Have at it.”
     
    H E STEPPED AWAY, but lingered, like he had another question, so Virgil asked, “Another question?”
    “How’re you getting along with Jim Stryker?”
    “Good. We’ve known each other for a while,” Virgil said.
    “Yeah…the baseball. But the word out of the sheriff’s shop is that they really had to stuff you down his throat,” Williamson said.
    “Is that right?”
    Williamson nodded: “Could just be office politics, but the word was, you could show off the sheriff’s…inadequacies.”
    “I work on eight or ten murders a year,” Virgil said. “You guys go decades without one. I’m a specialist. No harm in calling in a specialist.”
    Williamson chuckled. “That wasn’t how they were skinning the cat at the courthouse.”
     
    W HEN W ILLIAMSON was gone, Virgil wandered around, looking at yellowed labels on the drawers, figured out the system, names over here, subjects over there. The tall files were photos, mostly eight-by-ten originals, which stopped entirely in 2002; must have bought a digital camera, Virgil thought. The photos still smelled of developer and stop bath; the clips smelled of old cigarette smoke and pulp paper gone sour.
    The Judd photo files showed Judd in every decade starting in the 1940s, as a young man in a pale suit, but even then with bleak, black eyes.
    The pre-1999 Judd clipping files took up four drawers, hundreds of crumbling clippings entangled in small gray envelopes. Judd Jr. had several packets of his own, but they occupied only half a drawer. The measure of a couple of lives, Virgil thought.
    The file envelopes had an average of eight to ten articles each, and the bulk of the Judd Sr. clips, amounting to several stories a week, came in the 1980s, during the Jerusalem artichoke controversy.
    Judd was eventually accused of thirty-two counts of fraud by the Minnesota attorney general, based on evidence partly local and partly developed out of St. Paul. The assistant AG who prosecuted, and who apparently didn’t understand his own evidence, was torn to pieces by Judd’s defense attorneys in a trial in St. Paul. The local county attorney and the local sheriff were both defeated in the next election, by pissed-off voters.
    After the trial, there was further wrangling over federal and state taxes. The fight dragged through the courts for years, and in 1995, the Record reported that attorneys for both sides had agreed to settle the case, the settlement being confidential as a matter of tax law.
    The Judd envelopes not involving the Jerusalem artichoke controversy were generally business news: mortgages given and taken, buildings and land bought and sold, the house being built