Still Life With Crows

You too, Corrie.”

Pendergast stepped closer, Corrie trailing behind.

“The M.E.’s about to open him up.”

“I would advise waiting until the laboratory.”

“Nonsense.”

The photographer took some photos, the flashes blinding in the dim light of dawn, and then stepped back.

“Go ahead,” Hazen said to the M.E.

The M.E. removed a pair of scissors and carefully worked one point under the twine.Snip. The belly bulged, and the twine began to unravel from the pressure.

“If you’re not careful,” Pendergast cautioned, “some of the evidence might, ah,abscond. ”

“What’s inside,” said the sheriff cheerfully, “is irrelevant.”

“I should say it’s most relevant.”

“You can say it all you like,” said the sheriff, his good humor adding insolence to the comment. “Cut the other end.”

Snip.

The whole belly flopped open, and a collection of things came tumbling out, spilling across the ground. A foul stink rose up. Corrie gasped and backed away, holding her hand over her mouth. It took her a moment to take in what it was that had slid steaming into the dirt: a crazy-quilt assortment of leaves, twigs, slugs, salamanders, frogs, mice, stones. And there, among the offal, a slimy circlet that appeared to be a dog’s collar. A wounded but still living snake uncoiled from the mass and sidewinded painfully into the grass.

“Son of abitch, ” said Hazen, backing up, his face slack with disgust.

“Sheriff?”

“What?”

“There’s your tail.”

Pendergast was pointing at something protruding from the mess.

“Tail? What are you talking about?”

“The tail ripped from the dog.”

“Oh,that tail. We’ll be sure to bag and analyze that one.” Hazen had recovered quickly and Corrie caught him winking at the M.E.

“And the dog collar.”

“Yup,” Hazen said.

“May I point out,” Pendergast continued, “that it appears the abdomen was cut open with the same crude implement previously used for the Swegg amputations, the cutting off of the dog’s tail, and the scalping of Gasparilla.”

“Right, right,” said the sheriff, not listening.

“And if I am not mistaken,” Pendergast said, “there is the crude implement itself. Broken and tossed aside.” He indicated something in the dirt to one side.

The sheriff glanced over, frowned, and nodded to the SOC man, who photographed it in situ, then picked the two pieces up with rubber tweezers and put them in evidence bags. It was a flint Indian knife, lashed to a wooden handle.

“From here I’d say it was a Southern Cheyenne protohistoric knife, hafted with rawhide to a willow-wood handle. Genuine, I might add, and in perfect condition until it was broken by clumsy use. A find of particular importance.”

Hazen grinned. “Yeah, important. As another prop in this whole bullshit drama.”

“I beg your pardon?”

There was a rustle behind them, and Corrie turned. A pair of glossy-booted state troopers were pushing their way out of the corn and into the clearing. One was carrying a fax. The sheriff turned toward the newcomers with a big smile. “Ah. Just what I’ve been waiting for.” He held out his hand, snatched the fax, and glanced at it, his smile broadening. Then he handed it to Pendergast.

“It’s a cease-and-desist, Pendergast, straight from the FBI’s Midwestern Divisional Office. You’re off the case.”

“Indeed?” Pendergast read the document carefully. Then he looked up. “May I keep this, Sheriff?”

“By all means,” Hazen said. “Keep it, frame it, hang it in your den.” All of a sudden, his voice grew less affable. “And now, Mr. Pendergast, with all due respect, this is a crime scene and unauthorized personnel are not allowed.” His red eyes swiveled toward Corrie. “That means you and your sidekick.”

Corrie stared back at him.

Pendergast folded the sheet carefully and slipped it into his suit coat. He turned to Corrie. “Shall we?”

She stared at him in outrage. “Agent Pendergast,” she began, “you aren’t just going to let him get away with that—?”

“Now is not the time, Corrie,” he said softly.