“No, I just arrived at the medical examiner’s. She’s working on the third John Doe.”

“That’s right. I wanted to be there.”

Dr. Lockhart set a different organ on the scale, and Truman’s throat tightened. “I haven’t talked to her yet.”

“I’ll be there in fifteen minutes.” Bolton ended the call.

Truman put on the gown, slipped on gloves, and then added a mask and face shield. He felt ready for battle. He didn’t mind autopsies. He’d always had an interest in anatomy and physiology, and he respected that mysteries were solved through the invasive examination.

His victim lay on a wheeled stainless-steel table with a raised edge on all four sides. The far end of the table butted up against a sink where a long hose could stretch to rinse the victim—hence the need for the raised edge. Dr. Lockhart stood on a small stool beside her patient. Her male assistant was still taller than she. Truman was too.

She’d already completed the large Y cut from shoulders to groin. The sternum and a portion of the ribs had been cut and lifted away so she could access the lungs and heart. Truman glanced at a side table, spotting the large pruning shears with curved blades. The cutters were nearly as long as his arms. Shock had rattled him the first time he saw a medical examiner pick up the gardening tool and coolly start snapping ribs. They were effective.

Dr. Lockhart hadn’t peeled back the scalp, opened the skull, and removed the brain yet. The sound of the Stryker saw examiners used to remove the cap of the skull was one that Truman would never forget. He gazed at the victim’s face and prepared his stomach for what he knew would come soon.

“Have anything for me?” he asked the pathologist as she hummed along to Bon Jovi.

“I do.” She looked up, and her eyes danced, glittering behind her mask. “We identified him with his fingerprints.”

Truman nearly pumped his arm in celebration. “Sweet. Who is he? Wait—how come you didn’t call me?”

“Because you will have to share jurisdiction on this murder—and I knew you were on your way here.”

“Share? With Deschutes County? I know—”

“No,” Dr. Lockhart stated as she lifted out a jumbled mass of intestines and mesentery she had cut from the muscle walls. “This victim’s prints showed up in a federal database. He’s a government employee. More specifically, he works for the ATF, and I notified them already.” She glanced at the clock on the wall. “I expect someone from their office any minute.” She met Truman’s gaze. “As you can imagine, they move fast when one of theirs is murdered.”

“No doubt.” Truman wondered if the identification meant his victim wasn’t related to the first two murders. Or would they take another look at the other victims? It had been impossible to get prints on the severely decomposed body found a month ago, and prints of the man found in Britta’s field had led nowhere. Perhaps the involvement of the ATF would breathe new life into the first two cases.

“What else have you found?” Truman asked, wanting to collect as much information as possible in case the ATF agents booted him out the door when they arrived.

“I’ve examined the bullet entrance and exit in the skull. They are larger than the other two victims’ wounds, which is logical since the recovered bullet is larger than victim two’s bullet.”

Truman deflated a bit. His victim was looking less and less related to the other cases.

“He was a healthy male who I now know is thirty-three. Good muscle tone. No tattoos or major scars. I believe he had macaroni and cheese for his last meal.” She winked at Truman, who grimaced.

“What’s his name?”

“Timothy O’Shea.”

“Know anything else about him?” Truman asked, studying the damaged face. With his name rattling in Truman’s head, the autopsy now felt like an invasion of the man’s privacy.

“He weighs one hundred and eighty-two pounds.”

Not exactly the insight Truman had in mind.

A whoosh sounded, and Truman glanced back at the door. A tall, dark woman and a man had entered, both wearing suits. The ATF agents. “Dr. Lockhart?” asked the woman.

“Yes. Please put on the protective gear by the door.”

The two agents quickly dressed and approached. Truman had moved to the other side of the autopsy table, hoping he looked like another assistant in his gown and gloves. He was determined to milk his anonymity as long as possible. Dr. Lockhart shot him a side-eye, aware of his objective.

“I’m Carleen Aguirre, the resident in charge for the Portland ATF office,” said the woman. “This is Agent Neal Gorman.” Both agents glanced at Truman, who turned his attention to Dr. Lockhart’s hands in Timothy O’Shea’s torso.

The woman walked to the head of the table and stared down at the man’s face, her eyes going soft. “I’d hoped there’d been some sort of mistake,” she said quietly. “I see his fingerprints didn’t lie.” Her sigh was audible and heartfelt. At the foot of the table, Agent Gorman was silent as torment flashed in his eyes.

“He is your agent?” Dr. Lockhart asked.

Agent Aguirre nodded. Her chest rose in a deep breath under the pale-blue gown. “I’ll notify his family.”

“Now, Carleen—” Gorman started.

She cut him off. “I know his wife personally. I’ll do it.”

“I want to go with you.”

Agent Aguirre nodded, her focus still on the victim.

“Are cowboy boots standard footwear during autopsies?” Gorman suddenly asked. His narrowed eyes were locked on Truman. “Who are you?”

“This is Police Chief Daly,” Dr. Lockhart announced. “Your agent was found in his town.”

“Thank you, Chief,” Gorman said. “We’ll take it from here.” He awkwardly dug under his gown and came up with a business card. “You can send your reports to this email.”

Truman accepted the card, tucked it in a pocket, and held his ground. Both agents stared at him and then exchanged glances.

“Chief—” Aguirre started.

“My son found your agent’s body,” Truman cut in. “He was carelessly dumped in my town. I pay my respects by finding the truth, and the first step to finding justice for Timothy O’Shea is this autopsy. This is where I let my victim know that I will fight for him.”

I called Ollie my son.

It was right. The teen was part of his heart.

He looked from a silent Aguirre to Gorman. “If you don’t mind, I’d like to continue to observe.” Respect flashed in Gorman’s eyes.

“I appreciate your words, Chief,” Aguirre said. “And O’Shea is lucky to have been under your watchful eye, but this case is a delicate one. O’Shea was working an investigation when he was murdered.”

“Are you aware there’ve been two similar murders found in the past month in this general area?” Truman asked.

Agent Aguirre blinked. “No. How similar?”

“Single gunshot to the head. Male. Naked. Dumped.”

“I did the autopsies on the first two murder victims,” Dr. Lockhart added. “They remain unidentified. This man was shot twice—once in the chest—unlike the others.”

Gorman cocked his head as he and Aguirre had a silent conversation via gazes across the autopsy table. Aguirre mashed her lips together, concentration filling her face.

“Could the first two murders be related to O’Shea’s investigation?” Truman asked, not liking the agents’ silent response.

“We’ll review them,” Aguirre said tightly, exchanging another look with Gorman.

She looked rattled, the pulse at her neck rapidly beating. Gorman couldn’t stand still. He tried to plunge his hands into his front pockets and discovered the gown was in the way. He hiked it up, put his hands in his pockets, realized how ridiculous he looked, and removed them. “I need to make a phone call,” he said, pivoting to leave the room.

The autopsy suite doors swung open before he reached them. FBI agents Jeff Garrison and Eddie Peterson strode in, alarm on their faces. Truman caught his breath.

Mercy.

“You two don’t need to—” Gorman held up a hand to stop the two agents. Eddie pushed it away, his agonized gaze locked on Truman. Truman’s stomach landed somewhere near his feet. Nausea rocked him.

“Truman—” Eddie started.

“Agents!” Aguirre said loudly. She took several steps toward the men. “Why are you—”

“He needs to know!” Jeff argued, now face-to-face with Aguirre and pointing at Truman.

What’s happened to Mercy?

Truman couldn’t speak or move, panic freezing his muscles. He simply stared at the two agents.

Why did Aguirre stop Jeff?

“This is an ATF investigation,” she snapped at Jeff.

“No. He—”

“I don’t care that he found Tim’s body! This case does not involve—” she stated.

“Truman!” Eddie was heated as he tried to push by Gorman, who’d attempted to block him from moving closer.

Truman numbly focused on the despair in Eddie’s face and braced his arm on the autopsy table, feeling his knees about to crumble.

It’s not good news.

Eddie turned angry eyes on Gorman. “Get the fuck out of my way.”