the scene after a fisherman had made the gruesome discovery.
"No, sir, Ezzy."
"Not even the guy who found her?"
"You kiddin'? He was scared shitless. Didn't even come ashore. His boat was drifting past. He saw her lying here and beat it back to Mundy's Point to call us. I know better than to contaminate a crime scene. I've secured the area."
The deputy must have picked up the lingo on a TV cop show, because Ezzy was certain he had never used that terminology. Not too many of their crime scenes had to be cordoned off to prevent evidence contamination.
Mostly they did routine patrols and maintained general law and order. They were called to stop fights that broke out in the beer joints, or to settle a dispute between feuding family members, or to lock up a drunk who had become disorderly and potentially destructive. There were few outbreaks of violence that left victims dead, but on those rare occasions, the motivation was clear-cut. Armed robbery. Assault with a deadly weapon. Wife beating. The perpetrator usually had motivation that, if not justifiable or legal, was at least apparent. Senseless crimes that were committed for no other reason except outright meanness occurred somewhere else. In big cities. In urban ghettos. They were unheard of in Blewer County, Texas. So neither the deputy nor Ezzy, who was already a seasoned officer of the law, had ever seen anything as disturbing as this.
In an area of trampled grass, she was lying facedown. Literally. Her head wasn't even turned to one side. One arm was folded beneath her. The other lay along her side, palm up, fingers curled slightly inward. Her legs were spread. She was wearing a pair of sandals. Nothing else. It was summertime, so she was tanned except for a strip of white across the middle of her back, and her buttocks.
To Ezzy it seemed indecent for them to be staring down at her naked body. They were acting in an official capacity, but even so, they were as guilty as her murderer—Ezzy had immediately assumed that she had met with foul play—of stripping this young Woman of all dignity and respect.
"It's bad for us that it rained so hard last night," the deputy remarked, noting, as Ezzy had, the pool of rainwater that had collected in the small of the girl's back. "That probably washed away a lot of evidence."
"We'll have to work with what we've got."
"Yes, sir." The deputy blotted his moist upper lip with a folded handkerchief. "You think she was murdered?"
"It doesn't look like natural causes, does it, Deputy?"
A blue jay squawked angrily in the tree overhead, bringing Ezzy back into the present. He stuffed the empty Fritos package into the sack and chased their saltiness with the teeth-aching sweetness of the Peanut Pattie. Nibbling the pink, sugary candy, he stood and walked over to the spot where Patsy McCorkle had lain.
"Lord o' mercy. What've we got here, Ezzy?"
Startled, Ezzy glanced around, almost expecting old Harvey Stroud to materialize out of the surrounding forest. The coroner had been dead for fifteen years, and retired two years before that, but his voice was as real to Ezzy this morning as it had been when Stroud had knelt down beside Patsy McCorkle's corpse and slipped on his eyeglasses for a better look. Ezzy asked, "Did you bring your camera?"
"That fellow from the Banner is coming out right behind me." Ezzy had hoped to contain news of this until he'd had time to ask some preliminary questions of Patsy's close friends. He also wanted to allow the McCorkles time to absorb their shock and prepare for the onslaught of speculation their daughter's death would generate. But since Stroud had called in the newspaper's photographer, it would be the topic of conversation all over town by lunchtime.
"Can you tell anything yet, Harvey?"
"Don't rush me. I just got here." Without touching the body, he studied it from several angles, intent on his task. Finally he made a verbal observation. "There's a bruise on her neck." He pointed to the
"No, sir, Ezzy."
"Not even the guy who found her?"
"You kiddin'? He was scared shitless. Didn't even come ashore. His boat was drifting past. He saw her lying here and beat it back to Mundy's Point to call us. I know better than to contaminate a crime scene. I've secured the area."
The deputy must have picked up the lingo on a TV cop show, because Ezzy was certain he had never used that terminology. Not too many of their crime scenes had to be cordoned off to prevent evidence contamination.
Mostly they did routine patrols and maintained general law and order. They were called to stop fights that broke out in the beer joints, or to settle a dispute between feuding family members, or to lock up a drunk who had become disorderly and potentially destructive. There were few outbreaks of violence that left victims dead, but on those rare occasions, the motivation was clear-cut. Armed robbery. Assault with a deadly weapon. Wife beating. The perpetrator usually had motivation that, if not justifiable or legal, was at least apparent. Senseless crimes that were committed for no other reason except outright meanness occurred somewhere else. In big cities. In urban ghettos. They were unheard of in Blewer County, Texas. So neither the deputy nor Ezzy, who was already a seasoned officer of the law, had ever seen anything as disturbing as this.
In an area of trampled grass, she was lying facedown. Literally. Her head wasn't even turned to one side. One arm was folded beneath her. The other lay along her side, palm up, fingers curled slightly inward. Her legs were spread. She was wearing a pair of sandals. Nothing else. It was summertime, so she was tanned except for a strip of white across the middle of her back, and her buttocks.
To Ezzy it seemed indecent for them to be staring down at her naked body. They were acting in an official capacity, but even so, they were as guilty as her murderer—Ezzy had immediately assumed that she had met with foul play—of stripping this young Woman of all dignity and respect.
"It's bad for us that it rained so hard last night," the deputy remarked, noting, as Ezzy had, the pool of rainwater that had collected in the small of the girl's back. "That probably washed away a lot of evidence."
"We'll have to work with what we've got."
"Yes, sir." The deputy blotted his moist upper lip with a folded handkerchief. "You think she was murdered?"
"It doesn't look like natural causes, does it, Deputy?"
A blue jay squawked angrily in the tree overhead, bringing Ezzy back into the present. He stuffed the empty Fritos package into the sack and chased their saltiness with the teeth-aching sweetness of the Peanut Pattie. Nibbling the pink, sugary candy, he stood and walked over to the spot where Patsy McCorkle had lain.
"Lord o' mercy. What've we got here, Ezzy?"
Startled, Ezzy glanced around, almost expecting old Harvey Stroud to materialize out of the surrounding forest. The coroner had been dead for fifteen years, and retired two years before that, but his voice was as real to Ezzy this morning as it had been when Stroud had knelt down beside Patsy McCorkle's corpse and slipped on his eyeglasses for a better look. Ezzy asked, "Did you bring your camera?"
"That fellow from the Banner is coming out right behind me." Ezzy had hoped to contain news of this until he'd had time to ask some preliminary questions of Patsy's close friends. He also wanted to allow the McCorkles time to absorb their shock and prepare for the onslaught of speculation their daughter's death would generate. But since Stroud had called in the newspaper's photographer, it would be the topic of conversation all over town by lunchtime.
"Can you tell anything yet, Harvey?"
"Don't rush me. I just got here." Without touching the body, he studied it from several angles, intent on his task. Finally he made a verbal observation. "There's a bruise on her neck." He pointed to the
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