“Zara pulled this way when we went for our walk.” Britta frowned. “But around three in the morning, Zara had a barking fit and wanted out. I assumed she’d heard a coyote or cougar.” She lowered her voice. “Maybe if I’d let her out, we could have gotten to him before he died.”

Truman met her regretful gaze. There’s some rare emotion. “This man’s been dead a lot longer than six hours. I suspect Zara heard something as he was dumped here.”

Britta’s mouth formed an O before she smashed her lips together. A small tremor shook her frame. “That’s horrible. He was murdered, right?”

Truman looked to the body again. “Don’t know yet. Could have been a natural death, but then why dump him?”

“Fucking bastards.”

“Did you touch anything?” Truman asked.

“No.” She shuddered. “Is this aimed at me? Is someone trying to tell me something?”

“You think this is related to Ryan Moody’s attack on you last spring?”

Her pale skin lightened a shade. “It’s possible. It was all over the news. Maybe someone is angry he died, and—and they’re trying to get back at me.”

“You didn’t kill him.” Mercy did.

“People are nuts,” Britta rambled, her icy-blue gaze darting everywhere but at Truman. “Maybe they’re trying to set me up—”

“For what?”

“Murder, obviously.” She went down on a knee, wrapped an arm around Zara, and rapidly stroked the dog’s fur. “My property was picked for some reason.”

Her anxiety is at warp speed.

“Let’s not jump ahead of ourselves.” He started to rest a hand on her shoulder but pulled it back at the last second, remembering she didn’t like to be touched. “Ryan Moody doesn’t have any relatives left. He was a murderer—he killed his own brother. I doubt anyone is seeking revenge for his death.”

She sucked in several deep breaths, and his heart contracted at the sight of the struggle on her face as she fought to calm herself. She patted her dog and stood. “You’re right.”

He doubted she believed her words. Yet.

Anxiety infested the brain with lies and wild scenarios, disguising them as truth.

“Do you recognize the body?” Truman asked.

“No.” Britta shot a quick glance at the corpse again. “That was the first thing I determined when I found him.”

His face wasn’t familiar to Truman either, but death had distorted the features. He doubted the man’s face was usually that bloated or the eyes that sunken.

“I’ll have you and Zara carefully move away from the scene. Watch where you step and let me know if you see anything unusual. I’m going to call the Deschutes County Sheriff’s Office.” He gave her a side-eye. “Which you could have done.”

She shrugged, a pulse still beating rapidly in her neck.

She’s pulling herself together.

Truman dialed. Britta did things her own way. After calling in the location and requesting a detective, Truman studied the dead man more thoroughly. He stepped in a careful circle around the body and crouched on the far side, peering closer at his head. There was crusted blood visible in the hair against the dirt. He wanted to turn the head and see if it was hiding a deadly injury, but he knew better.

A blow to the side of the head? Gunshot?

He didn’t see any exit wounds.

The medical examiner would answer the question.

He glanced at the rising sun. A distinct rotting odor already filled the area. The sun and heat would make it worse.

How long has he been dead?

He was pretty certain this level of bloating took at least a day or two. He glanced back at Britta and Zara, who had moved ten feet away. “Did you and Zara walk your property yesterday?”

Britta gave a short nod, her eyes focused on the mountains to the west.

If the body had been here yesterday, Zara would have led her master to the spot.

Someone moved him to this location. Why?

He watched Britta out of the corner of his eye. Her past was violent, but that wasn’t her fault. Some people attracted trouble. Almost as if they put out an invisible lure. He knew no one wanted peace and solitude more than Britta, but turbulence seemed to follow her.

Is this man part of her past?

Truman watched Britta as the Deschutes County vehicles started to arrive. She shifted from foot to foot and constantly rubbed her forearms. Zara pressed her body against her owner’s knee, her dark doggy eyes full of sympathy.

“I’m outta here.” Britta gave Zara a command, and the two of them turned toward her home.

“They’ll want to interview you,” Truman said to her retreating back.

“You can tell them what I said,” she answered without turning around or breaking stride.

“They need to hear it from you.”

“You know where to find me.”

“They need to find you, not me,” Truman muttered, knowing she’d said the last line as a request that he be present during any discussions with a county detective. He watched as a crime scene van and an unmarked Ford Explorer pulled in behind the other vehicles. Detective Evan Bolton stepped out of the SUV and lifted a hand in greeting to Truman.

Good.

He trusted Bolton and knew from experience he was a solid investigator. Mercy called him the Angel of Death because he always turned up when someone was dead.

It’s his job.

He saw Bolton glance at Britta’s retreating figure as he strode up to Truman. Bolton was a few years younger than he, but his bleak gaze suggested he’d been a cop for fifty years. Truman wondered if anything ever rattled him. The two men shook hands.

“That my witness?” Bolton asked.

“Yes. Her house is farther up the driveway. She’s had enough of the scene and needs some time to regroup.”

“Understandable.” Bolton took a long look at the man on the ground, his face unreadable after a flash of anger in his eyes. Truman felt an accord with the detective. The stark scene was making him angrier by the moment. Bolton glanced back at his crime scene crew as they continued to unload their equipment. “When was he found?”

“Britta found him about two hours ago and—”

“Called you?” The question was clear on Bolton’s face.

“She tried to reach Mercy, and when she couldn’t, she called me.” Truman paused. “Britta has trust issues, but Mercy is on her safe list—and I guess I am by association.”

“I know the story of her family’s murder,” Bolton answered. “She went through hell as a kid. And then again last spring.” He raised a brow at Truman. “She a reliable witness?”

“Absolutely.” Truman had no doubt. Britta was a straight shooter. She just didn’t like people. “Her dog went berserk around three this morning and then led Britta directly here when they came out for a walk five hours later.”

“This man has been dead more than five hours.”

“Clearly. But Britta and her dog walk or run on the property every day. Her dog would have dragged her here if the body had been present yesterday.”

“Agreed.” Bolton pulled gloves out of his pocket as his crew approached. One of them had already taken several photos of the surrounding area. “Get initial shots of the body so I can move him a bit.” The tech nodded and proceeded to take another dozen shots.

“Let’s take a look.” Bolton jerked his head for Truman to join him.

The two men moved closer to the body, checking where they placed their feet.

“I assume no ID?” Bolton asked.

“Didn’t see any in the immediate area. Could be underneath him, I guess.”

“Lividity is on his back. Not his side,” Bolton pointed out.

In other words, he had lain on his back for several hours after he died, creating a purple mottled pattern where the blood had settled. Not curled up on his side as in his current position.

He had definitely been moved.

“Help me move him onto his back.”

Truman held his breath, and they gently rolled him backward, crushing more of the hay and exposing the right side of the victim’s head. His hair was a matted, dry mess of blood. His head and arms flopped.

“Rigor is gone,” mumbled Truman.

Rigor mortis typically came and went within thirty-six to forty-eight hours. He’d been right that the victim had been dead for longer.

Bolton got closer to the crusted mass of bloody hair. He carefully touched and prodded at the skull. “I think we’ve got a gunshot wound under this mess. No exit wound?”

“I don’t see one.” Depending on their size and the distance from which the gun had been fired, bullets could bounce around inside the skull, making scrambled brains instead of creating an exit. “Examiner coming?”

“Yes, I talked to Dr. Lockhart. She said she’d be out as soon as possible.” Bolton sighed. “I’ll start checking for missing persons of his description. Would you guess he’s somewhere in his forties or fifties?”

“Hard to tell.” His face had deep wrinkles around the mouth, and the partially gray hair was the main clue to his age.

“Fingernails are short and grimy. Hands dirty. He knew physical work,” Bolton suggested.

“Or he worked with plants or vehicles.”

Bolton lifted a shoulder in agreement. They were getting ahead of themselves.

“Hopefully the medical examiner will find some distinguishing marks—scars or previously broken bones to help me search.” Bolton made a notation in his notebook.

“I imagine he’s been reported missing,” Truman said.