PROFILE
1
Each spring surprised Jesse. In the years since he’d come to Paradise he never remembered, from year to year, how pretty spring was in the Northeast. He stood now among the opening flowers and the new leaves, looking at a dead man, hanging by his neck from the limb of a tree in the park, on Indian Hill, overlooking the harbor.
Peter Perkins was taking pictures. Suitcase Simpson was running crime-scene tape and shooing away onlookers. Molly Crane sat in a squad car, talking with a woman in jogging clothes. Molly was writing in her notebook.
“Doesn’t look like his neck is broken,” Jesse said. R O B E R T B . P A R K E R
Perkins nodded.
“Hands are free,” Jesse said.
Perkins nodded.
“Nothing to jump off of,” Jesse said. “Unless he went up in the tree and jumped from the limb.”
Perkins nodded.
“Open his coat,” Peter Perkins said.
Jesse opened the raincoat. An argyle sweater beneath the coat was dark and stiff with dried blood.
“There goes the suicide theory,” Jesse said.
“ME will tell us,” Perkins said, “but my guess is he was dead before he got hung.”
Jesse walked around the area, looking at the ground. At one point he squatted on his heels and looked at the grass.
“They had already shot him,” Jesse said. “And dragged him over . . .”
“Sometimes I forget you grew up out west,” Perkins said. Jesse grinned and walked toward the tree, still looking down.
“And looped the rope around his neck . . .”
Jesse looked up at the corpse.
“Tossed the rope over the tree limb, hauled him up, and tied the rope around the trunk.”
“Good-sized guy,” Perkins said.
“About two hundred?” Jesse said.
Perkins looked appraisingly at the corpse and nodded.
“Dead weight,” Perkins said.
“So to speak,” Jesse said.
2
H I G H P R O F I L E
“Maybe more than one person involved,” Perkins said. Jesse nodded.
“ID?” Jesse said.
“None,” Perkins said. “No wallet, nothing.”
