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out here.” Ollie’s eyes flew open. “The dead woman was decked out for a cocktail party. She wasn’t dressed for the picnic area of a state park out in the boonies.”
    “The guy lured her out here, tried to rape her, she resisted, he shot her, and the other person came along, didn’t like what he or she saw, and then sliced the guy’s throat. Makes perfect sense.”
    “You’re not only thinking outside the box, you’re thinking outside your brain.”
    “I’ll bet,” Rosswell said, “the dead female was surprised. Her throat wasn’t slit and there wasn’t much blood around her. The killer could’ve just shot her without warning.”
    “UNSUB.”
    It still had to be close to a hundred degrees. Rosswell stunk, the place stunk, and he was hungry, tired, and irritated. Every insect within a mile must’ve pledged itself to torment him with its biting and buzzing. The last thing he needed was more of Ollie’s games. “What kind of word is that?”
    “You’re being intentionally dense.”
    “Dense?” Ollie started to squeak but Rosswell shot up a hand and wiggled his fingers. “Don’t do that again for the rest of the day. Tell me. That’s all, just tell me.”
    “UNSUB is an FBI acronym for unknown subject. That’s why we’ll call this person the UNSUB.”
    “No, let’s not call anyone that. I hate acronyms. And sometimes synonyms. And I’m not real fond of antonyms.”
    “Okay.”
    Ollie and Rosswell searched Picnic Area 3 again. Rosswell crouched while Ollie lay face down, giving himself a worm’s eye view. Nothing. Ollie rose muddy. They both walked backward, looking down around their feet as they shuffled. They also walked forward, staring at the area around their feet. Nothing.
    “Damn,” Rosswell said after two hours of finding nothing. “This detective business is tiring.”
    Ollie grabbed him by the shoulders. Ollie’s tight grip hurt Rosswell. There’s something unsettling in being grabbed by a big guy you’ve thrown in jail. Rosswell made no move. What Ollie thought at that moment wasn’t clear to Rosswell. What the large snitch wanted that caused him to grab Rosswell was a mystery. The fact that Ollie had never beaten him up before was comforting. Not much. But a little.
    “You,” Ollie said, “need to learn something.”
    “What?”
    “We’ve just started.” Ollie dropped his arms. “If you’re giving up, then take me back to town.”
    “No.”
    The thought that a third murder or perhaps a good thumping was in the works raced across Rosswell’s mind like a scared jack rabbit with a wolf on his tail. A detective slaughtered by his snitch was bad karma.
    Ollie pulled out the heavy silver ring Rosswell had given him at Merc’s. “Either take me back to town and keep your ring and your whining to yourself, or show me where you found this.” He held out the ring. Rosswell considered it but didn’t take the ring.
    “What’s that Latin phrase mean?”
    “ Virtus junxit mors non separabit .” Ollie said it with a sepulchral tone, as if he were pronouncing doom on someone. “‘Virtue has united and death shall not separate.’ Or, maybe, ‘Whom virtue unites, death will not separate.’ It depends on your translation.”
    “Sounds like something out of a wedding ceremony.”
    “Nope. Masonic.”
    “Ollie, what in the hell are you talking about?”
    “You didn’t see the rest of the inscription.” He pointed to three letters on the opposite side of the inside of the ring. “EJD.”
    “Somebody’s initials?”
    “Could be. Or it could be the abbreviation for a motto.”
    “We need to find a Mason who has those initials.”
    “Or,” Ollie said, “someone who knows if that’s an abbreviation for a motto.”
    Rosswell, by then tired as a lost dog, pushed himself to walk to where he’d found the ring. Exhaustion hulked down the road towards him like an 18 wheeler on the interstate. The log, following the rules of nature, had sailed down the river along