Something got hit by a car.

He glanced over as he sped by, trying to identify the type of animal lying far off the road. It was a long, pale lump with a few birds on top.

Did I see an orange hat?

Ollie pulled onto the shoulder and craned his neck to see out the back window. The lump was too far away to distinguish details. He turned and stared out his windshield. If it was a body, he had no wish to see it. He’d stumbled across skeletal human remains a few months ago, and that had been disturbing enough for one lifetime.

It’s nothing. Just go to school.

He pulled back onto the road, deciding to move on. If it’d been a body, someone would have already stopped.

I can’t.

He pulled a U-turn. Traffic was always light on the road, especially this early in the morning. He’d take a look, satisfy his curiosity, and continue on to class.

He passed the lump, made another U-turn, and parked on the edge of the road. The birds flew off but maintained their circle in the sky. Straining his eyes, he tried to make heads or tails of what he saw, but the lump was about thirty feet off the road and down a small slope. He’d have to move closer.

Swearing under his breath, Ollie hopped out of his old truck and carefully stepped down the short bank to where the ground leveled off. He walked through the sagebrush, reddish-brown dirt, and ancient volcanic rocks of all sizes. The larger rocks were the reason he wasn’t certain about what he saw.

“Fuck.” Ollie whirled away from the sight, his coffee burning in his gut.

It was a body. Male. Shot in the forehead and the chest.

A filthy orange cap, the kind hunters often wore, lay two feet from the body.

Ollie held his breath and steeled himself for another look. The man lay on his back, his right arm stretched out above his head as if he were reaching for his hat. There was no question that the man was dead. The birds had already worked on his face. The victim was naked except for his underwear. Even his socks and shoes were missing.

With shaking hands, Ollie slid his phone out of his pocket and called Truman.

“Think we should call state for help?” Officer Ben Cooley asked Truman.

Truman lifted his cowboy hat to run a hand through his hair as he evaluated the dead body. “I already called Deschutes County for their evidence team. This is the third man who’s been shot and dumped over the last few weeks. Bolton has been handling those investigations.”

But this one is in my jurisdiction.

Not that he would shut Bolton out of the investigation. Common sense said the detective should be involved in this case, but Truman intended to keep his foot firmly on it. It was his. He had already felt personally connected because one of the victims had been found at Britta’s, but this made his association feel stronger.

“You don’t recognize him?” Truman asked. Ben had worked for the Eagle’s Nest police department for over thirty years. He knew almost everyone in the area.

“Seems familiar, but I can’t quite place him. Hard to do with part of his face missing. Damned birds,” Ben answered, scratching under his chin as he pondered the body. “Looks young. Speaking of young men, how was Ollie after finding him?”

“He was shook. I told him to go home, but he insisted on going to class. Said it’d keep his mind on other things.”

“That boy has some bad luck. Found two bodies this year.”

“He thinks he’s pretty lucky these days,” Truman replied.

Ollie had a permanent home as part of Truman’s family.

Crouching next to the body, Truman estimated the victim to be in his twenties or thirties. “I want to see underneath him.” He handed Ben a pair of vinyl gloves. Truman had already taken several dozen photographs of the body. They could do a quick study without concern about disturbing the scene.

“I’ll roll him toward you,” Truman said, lifting the man’s shoulder and hip. He was heavy. The body wasn’t in full rigor yet; his arms were stiff but not completely frozen in place. No swelling or hint of decomposition. No doubt the cold temperatures had helped, and Truman suspected he’d been shot at some point overnight. There was an exit wound in the back of his skull and a hole in the dirt under his head. He had been shot in the head as he lay on the ground.

But no hole in the ground below the exit wound in his back. Possibly he’d been standing when shot in the chest and had fallen.

The crunch of gravel announced another vehicle had arrived. Truman stood, expecting to see a county cruiser. Instead it was his youngest officer, Royce Gibson. Royce was an enthusiastic and hardworking cop, but he was also the most innocent and unsuspecting man Truman had ever met. The rest of his team had made it their mission to frequently prank the officer. Just that morning his office manager, Lucas, had given him a mayonnaise-filled doughnut. Royce had eaten half before he realized something wasn’t right. Truman had learned long ago not to accept food from Lucas without careful investigation.

Royce stopped at the top of the short bank, staring across at the scene. Truman waved him down. The cop could use a little hardening up. His face always gave away his emotions. Sure enough, Royce’s mouth dropped open as he got closer.

He stopped several feet away and averted his eyes, swallowing hard. “Jeez, Truman. What do you think happened?”

“I think he was shot,” Truman answered dryly. “Do you recognize him?”

Royce took two hesitant steps closer and made himself look at the face. “Holy shit!” He rubbed a trembling hand across his forehead as he turned away.

Truman raised an eyebrow. “Is that a yes?”

Royce’s gaze darted to the body and away again. He audibly swallowed. “Sorta looks like Gerry Norris. Works at the gas station. Well, I assume he still works there. I didn’t see him around much this past summer.” Royce shuddered. “Worked for Nick Walker at the lumberyard a few years back. I think Nick let him go. Nasty parting, if I remember right.”

Nick was Truman’s almost-brother-in-law. Married to Mercy’s sister Rose.

Ben had listened closely as Royce talked. “I’ll have Lucas get us a home address and Norris’s license photo to check,” he said, tapping on his phone and stepping away.

“You sure that’s who this is?” Truman asked. “Why don’t I recognize him?”

“Well—I’m not positive. Hard to tell, really. Sure feels like it could be him.” Royce took another rapid glance at the victim. “Maybe you don’t know him because he worked the graveyard shift. Uh . . . I need to get something out of my truck.” He headed back to the road before Truman could say anything else.

Bolton’s Explorer had just parked behind Royce’s patrol vehicle. Evan Bolton raised a hand at the young officer, who returned the gesture but kept walking. Bolton’s gaze followed Royce, watching as he climbed in his SUV and simply sat, staring down at his lap. The detective shrugged. Truman understood Bolton’s confusion. Royce always had a cheery word for everyone. Typically too many cheery words. It was often difficult to get the officer to stop talking.

“We meet again,” Bolton said as he approached Truman. “I’m beginning to dread your phone calls.”

Truman didn’t laugh and launched directly into business. “This victim was shot in the chest before he took a bullet to the head. I believe we’ll find the second bullet in the ground under his head. And we have a possible identification on him already.”

Bolton scanned the body. “Good. We can compare the bullet to the one we pulled from the second victim. Nice that we’re early to this one. I had an artist put together some sketches of the first two victims. They’re already posted online, and they’ll be on the local news tonight. Somebody out there should recognize them.” He bent closer. “Why did he shoot you in the chest first?” he muttered. “Who ID’d him?”

“Royce. Says he thinks it’s Gerry Norris. A local.”

“So that’s why Royce looked ready to puke,” Bolton commented.

Truman studied the detective. Bolton had always impressed him with his steady demeanor no matter what horror was in front of him. But at what cost had he developed that calm?

“Have an address for Norris?” Bolton asked.

Ben rejoined the group. “I got it and a photo,” he answered. He held up his phone, which displayed an enlarged driver’s license picture. “This guy looks a lot heavier than our victim. Face is rounder. Now I’m not sure it’s him.”

Truman compared the photo to the body. Neither he nor Bolton could be certain it was Norris.

“I’ll text you the address, Truman,” Ben said as he stomped and waved an arm at a bird that had ventured too close, its beady eyes on the body. “Damned birds.”

“Wait for the evidence team and medical examiner,” Truman told Ben. He glanced back at Royce, who was still sitting in his vehicle. “Get Royce back down here and have him help the team. I don’t care if he just holds a garbage bag or takes bird duty. Keep him busy with something.”