Death Comes in the Morning

By Don Bissett

When Nathan Parker was discarded from his job in Cincinnati in the economic collapse of 2008, he took his shattered confidence west for a new start. Near the small town of Willow Run, Montana, he finds a man’s body. Then it vanishes.

Dismissed as a lunatic drifter by a hulking inept Deputy and an aging Sheriff, Nathan Parker vows to prove there was a body and to discover why he died. He finds support in a local woman, a fiery-tempered red head, who has a passion for books. And a passion for trouble. She helps him in his quest and becomes his romantic interest.

As Parker digs deeper into this sleepy little town’s history, he unearths a web of deception and greed that is anything but wholesome. Then like the dead man’s body, local citizens begin to vanish. But no one seems to notice.

Parker doesn’t know who can be trusted. When the last pieces of the mystery fall into place, he also vanishes, accused as a cop killer on the run. Now he must use his wits to escape. Taking the law into his own hands, he must save himself and his fellow prisoners, reveal the conspiracy, and win back the affection of the red-haired woman.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Don Bissett
• Release date: Oct 26, 2011
• ISBN: 9781466071476

Don Bissett

About the author: Don Bissett is originally from New England, growing up in Massachusetts and Connecticut. He attended the University of Connecticut and Michigan State University, obtaining degrees in chemistry. During his career as a scientist in industry, he published extensively in technical journals and textbooks. That experience nurtured a passion for writing. In addition to writing novels, he uses his science experience in consulting with industry. His hobbies include travel, hiking, and fossil collecting. The author currently resides in Michigan.Death Comes in the Morning is the author’s first novel. His second and third novels in the Nathan Hale Parker series (Dying at a Premium; Scheduled to Die) have since been published. And now his fourth, fifth, and sixth books (which form a trilogy with the same main character) are completed and available: Running Nameless, Running with Intent, and Running to Cover. Each of the three books in the Running trilogy has its own independent plot, along with a compelling story line that progresses across the entire trilogy.Contact the author: [e-mail]

Book preview

Chapter 1

I made the call at ten in the morning, surprised that there was cell phone service this far out in the forest in Montana. But three bars showed on my phone, and the call was answered after one ring.

9-1-1 Teton County. What’s your emergency? An alert, calm, professional-sounding female voice. Someone who had experience in answering 9-1-1 calls. But for me, this was my first time ever calling the number.

I found a dead body in the forest, I said evenly.

You found a body? Her response was full of disbelief and emotion.

Yes. There’s a dead man here. Just the facts. Wait for her next question.

Why are you sure he is dead? Does he need medical attention? She sounded a bit frenzied. One so often hears on the news the frantic unintelligible audio from hysterical callers in distress. The operator has to ask the same question over and over to get clear answers. And the voice of the operator also can rise in pitch and volume in the excitement of the moment. Perhaps this was the first time she had gotten a call about a body. She might also be wondering why I was not one of those hysterical callers. But I would be calm and clear since I was detached from this problem.

No, he doesn’t need medical attention. There’s no doubt he is dead. I let that sink in for a few seconds. I looked down at the lifeless form at my feet, his eyes staring blankly, flies buzzing around the exposed face and hands.

It was the sound of buzzing flies that drew me off the trail. When I approached, a vulture lazily flapped its wings and hopped away, perching nearby to guard his meal. His abrupt departure sent a cloud of flies airborne. There was also a very faint putrid odor. Not overpowering, but it was definitely there, the smell of death.

I spoke again to the Operator. My name is Nathan Parker. I was hiking on Monarch Trail in Lewis and Clark National Forest and found the body. I don’t know who he is or how he died. He’s lying near the base of a cliff on the trail.

I heard the clicking sound of a keyboard. She was probably entering the information into a computer. She didn’t tell me to slow down or to repeat anything, so I continued. I estimate he’s been dead for less than twenty-four hours, probably less than twelve. That seemed like a reasonable estimate to me.

What? How do you figure that?

The blow flies. He’s covered in them.

What kind of flies?

Blow flies. They’re the first insects to invade a corpse. There also may be some flesh flies in the mix.

What? How do you know that?

I’m an ex-cop. I’ve seen many bodies.

I thought of a couple more pieces of vital information. The operator needs to know the Ws: what, where, when, who, why, weapons. I hadn’t yet given her all of them. So I added, There is no weapon that I can see, and there’s no one else here, just the body and me.

Yes, just me, I thought. I had always been a bit of a loner. I liked solitude. Maybe that’s part of the reason hiking is so appealing to me. Alone to wander quietly at my own pace in the wilderness. I didn’t choose to be this way. It’s just the way I am. Maybe it’s genetic, maybe it has something to do with my upbringing, the old nature vs. nurture debate. It didn’t matter. I am what I am.

But I had been alone for a long time now, dumped as a cop, looking for work, roaming westward. My time was occupied, but I was alone, too alone. I had found my limit for solitude. I would always need periods of alone time, but I also needed more. Even this long-distance connection with a nameless 9-1-1 Operator was comforting contact.

I gave her my cell phone number in case it was not displayed on her screen. She told me to stay on the line while she transferred my call to the local authorities. I stayed on the line.

I stayed on the line waiting, waiting for a long time, and thinking.

I’m an ex-cop. When I supplied that information to the 9-1-1 Operator, it was the first time I had actually said that to anyone. I added it thinking there would be some authority behind it, like I would automatically therefore know what I was talking about. But I really didn’t feel authoritative. They took that away from me when I had to turn in my badge and gun back in Cincinnati.

They said it was the economy. The financial meltdown of the Great Recession hit like a tsunami, even in conservative Cincinnati. It has been said that Mark Twain, speaking about that conservative city, once stated something to the effect, If I knew the world was going to end, I would move to Cincinnati since everything there happens ten years later. He was wrong. The collapse happened even there as it rippled through the US. It left me and millions of other casualties in its wake. One day you’re working, next day you’re out. Discarded. Thrown away. Society’s litter.

And no one was hiring. I tried for months to find a job as a cop, bodyguard, security guard, even lifeguard. No one was hiring. My unemployment benefits ended. I found some low-paying jobs, but all they did was slow my downward financial spiral. So I finally gave up, sold all my belongings, dropped all my subscriptions, and abandoned my house and its under-water mortgage. Homeless. Now all I had left in the world was inside my old car.

My ex-partner, Ed Garvey, offered to let me move into his basement. As close as we were on both professional and personal levels, I could not intrude on his life like that. He had kids to raise. He didn’t need me in the way.

If I had stayed in Cincinnati, it would have been too tempting to keep trying to re-enter my old life, waiting for the phone to ring, waiting for the call back to my old job, waiting for something that was not going to happen. I had to leave. So just like many refugees of the past, from the Dust Bowl and the Great Depression, I went west to find greener pastures. I eventually wandered to Montana, Big Sky Country.

Of course, there were no jobs out here either. Besides, who wants to hire someone who lives in his car? Too unstable. Can’t be trusted. Just a drifter. Society’s litter.

I lost confidence, drifted aimlessly, and lost hope. So to boost my own morale, I decided to pursue two passions of mine: hiking and writing. Hiking really cost nothing except time, and I had plenty of that. It allowed me to clear my head and try to forget that I was discarded. Writing also cost me nothing, but it had potential to produce income. Perhaps I could write something that would capture my first-hand experience as a homeless person. Could I make that into a compelling-enough story to start a new career as a writer? Maybe. I had written articles for magazines on hiking and then about the litter that other hikers leave behind. As Ed Garvey advised, Go write the great American novel. So here I am in Montana, the Big Sky State, to try to do that. Perhaps Big Sky could make big dreams come true.

My brooding was finally interrupted when a voice came on the line.

This is Deputy Powell, Willow Run police department. It was a young-sounding, deep, booming voice. I knew Willow Run was the nearest town, the only town for many miles. That is where I had rented a room at a cheap run-down motel, though I hadn’t actually seen the town center yet.

What’s the problem? His question sounded almost bored. The 9-1-1 Operator must not have told him that I was reporting a body.

There’s a dead body here.

A body? This response was enthusiastic. But then he became more suspicious and fired questions at me. Are you sure he’s dead? Does he maybe need medical attention? Where are you? Then he yelled into the phone, And who the hell is this anyway?

Deputy Powell must be an inexperienced officer. Too frantic, firing off too many questions, making his own job more difficult. I chose to respond calmly to just one of his questions, rather than fire back random answers.

No, I said, trying hard to keep from displaying the annoyance I felt. With all the flies and the vulture that started in on him, there’s no doubt. He’s dead.

Where are you and what’s your name? he repeated, his tone now more accusatory.

Trying even harder to keep this conversation informative, I responded evenly, I’m on Monarch Trail in the National Forest. My name….

He didn’t let me finish before he shouted into the phone, Did you kill this guy?

What is this guy’s problem? Now I was beginning to wish I hadn’t made the call. I was out of this death business. I could have just walked away. Maybe I could have convinced myself it’s not my problem. But I knew that wasn’t possible for me. Even as an ex-cop, having taken the oath to protect and to serve, I still felt that obligation. Besides, now it’s too late. But this Deputy was beginning to annoy me, and to worry me.

Deputy, please let me explain, I said, trying my hardest not to vent back at him in frustration.

Oh, so you admit you have some explaining to do. Why did you kill him? He breathed heavily into the receiver, like he was hyperventilating. Well? he bellowed.

That was it. He had received the last courteous response from me. Maybe I should put the dead guy on the phone. Then he can tell you he’s dead and that I didn’t do it, I quipped. If I had thought about what I would say, that quip would not have been my first choice. But I was glad it came out that way. I may have lost hope in finding a job, but I hadn’t lost my sense of humor in dealing with pinheads.

His response was more sinister. Oh, a smart ass, he responded in a you’ll-pay-for-that tone.

Look, Deputy. I had to get this conversation back on a professional level. The guy was already dead when I got here. He was covered in flies, like he has been dead for at least several hours. I paused to let that sink in. My name is Nathan Parker, and I’m just out here hiking. I’m calling from my cell phone. I gave him the number. I’m about 3 miles out on Monarch Trail in the Lewis and Clark National Forest. The body is lying here near the base of a cliff. The guy appears to be Hispanic.

He too must have recognized the need to be more professional about this. All right, he said in a more controlled tone. I know the trail. Well, you stay put and don’t touch anything. His voice was getting a bit calmer, though it still wavered with agitation. I don’t want you messing with my crime scene.

Crime scene? This looked more like a guy falling off a cliff.

Deputy Powell continued, I’ll be there in about an hour. Don’t mess with my crime scene, he repeated, the confrontational tone returning. Understood?

Don’t worry, Deputy. I won’t disturb the body. But my words were spoken to a dial tone. He had already hung up.

Chapter 2

The Deputy said about an hour before he would arrive. A long time to wait. While I swore not to disturb the body, I really hadn’t meant it. And he had already hung up, so he didn’t hear that anyway. Besides, I had been a cop. I’m naturally nosey.

I also began to feel some excitement, a feeling that I had not sensed for a long time. I also felt a bit guilty that it took this man’s death to get my juices flowing, but I couldn’t help it. After so long, I was finally involved in something.

I had seen bodies before. When I was on the force in Cincinnati, there were over 70 deaths each year from murder alone. That provided a lot of experience. Getting pictures seemed like a good place to start. I opened my phone and snapped several, then stuffed the device back into my shirt pocket.

In my days as a cop, I would be taking notes of my observations. But for the first time in many years, I had nothing on me to write with. No paper. No pen. And I wanted to become a writer? Well, I could at least take mental notes.

The hatless body lay on its stomach, arms outstretched. His hands were open with palms down on the ground, like he had tried to use them to break his fall. The left cheek was pressed against some rocks. A small pool of dried blood lay on the ground around the head. No open wound was visible, so the blood must have leaked from somewhere on the left side of the face. The exposed right eye was open and unblinking. The exposed right ear was jaggedly torn and crusted with blood. Perhaps the vulture had just started in on him there. Black dusty hair crowned a dirt-streaked, dark-skinned, unshaven face with a thin ragged beard. He appeared to be under 40. Perhaps Hispanic.

He was short, probably only a few inches taller than five feet, and wore a plain coat, grimy baggy pants, and worn shoes. The coat was torn, with jagged tears and slices, some that were deep enough to draw trickles of blood. It reminded me of the wounds from a knife fight.

The body had certainly been here for less than a day. Any longer than a day in this summer heat would have led to much greater decay and a stronger putrid odor. And the vulture would have had more time to do some serious damage. I’m no expert on body decomposition. That was the job of the medical examiner, the ME, to tell the cops what he learned from his examination.

I did know that insects are among the best allies of an ME. From controlled studies with decaying bodies at defined temperatures, scientists determined that insects invade corpses in a predictable sequence. Insects are drawn by the putrid scent of decomposition. The first to arrive are shiny blue-green blowflies. There were plenty of them on this corpse. They are followed by dark-colored flesh flies. I was certain there were a few of them here also. The next to join are beetles, which can eventually strip flesh right down to the bone. Even common houseflies are lured by the feast on flesh. As all these species reproduce, predatory and parasitic insects feed on the offspring. And in the end, hide beetles and clothes moths consume what’s left.

Based on the insect species present, their stages of development in their life cycles, and the environmental conditions, a forensic expert can determine when the insects first invaded the body. Since the insects usually find the corpse within minutes of death, the time of death can be calculated fairly accurately. Even without that kind of detailed analysis, I was still betting on much less than 24 hours, probably less than 12 hours.

Leave it alone, I murmured to myself, but knew I couldn’t. I had been a cop. Being nosey was in my blood. Even though the guy was dead, I had to be more thorough. I grasped the right wrist and felt for a pulse. Nothing. I continued by lifting it further, and then did the same with the left. Both hands were empty, but all the creases of the fingers and palms were filled with deeply embedded dirt. The palms were heavily callused, and dark dirt filled the spaces under the fingernails. These hands had done hard labor. If he was a migrant worker, hard labor might be expected. The life of such migrants involved using one’s hands and arms and backs in manual labor, whether it was landscaping, construction, or harvesting crops.

On the ground where his right hand had been lay a crinkled piece of brown paper. Next to it was a length of jaggedly torn plant stem with a few attached leaves. These were fresh, not old, dried out, and darkened like one would expect from something that has been lying around for a long time. While I could reasonably guess how long the Hispanic’s body had been lying here, I didn’t know plants. How quickly do they dry out and wither once they are detached from the living plant? I had no clue. I could, though, see they were not from any of the bushes or grasses in the immediate vicinity. Different stuff.

But there were also pieces of all sorts of other plants covering this guy. Burrs, leaves, twigs. To examine any of it further, I would have to disturb them. Probably it had nothing to do with the body. Just more trail litter. Rather than disturb it, I snapped some pictures with my cell phone, then placed the hands of the body back in their original positions. The paper was probably nothing. Most materials collected in the field turn out to be nothing of importance. But police collect it all, sift it, and pull out the useful pieces.

There were no back pockets on the baggy pants, but there was one on the exposed right side of the loose fitting coat. Some green plant material stuck out of the pocket. I often end up with parts of plants in my clothes after a hike. Most likely he had been off the cleared and marked trails to have picked up so much vegetation.

I looked around the body at the loose soil for several feet in each direction and only saw my own footprints leading in a straight line to this spot. It was clear there were no other impressions in the ground, and certainly nothing to match his badly worn footwear. There was also nothing lying on the ground in the area, not a backpack, not even a water container. Being this far in the backcountry without water in this hot weather seemed unusual. But then, many people die from being unprepared for what they consider a simple hike.

So if there are no footprints leading to this spot, how did he get here? I had already concluded he must have come from the overhanging cliff above, but that was probably 20 feet behind him. To be this far from the cliff, he must have been running and soared off into open space, landing out here. He didn’t look like a runner and wasn’t outfitted like one. Regardless, he must have been running. But running from where or from what?

There are large predators in Montana: bears and mountain lions. Maybe he was running from one of them. There are, of course, more sinister possibilities, which is where my time as a cop so often led me. Maybe he was running to the cliff on purpose, for suicide. Or did someone help launch him off that cliff? Or even toss him out of an aircraft?

I wanted to study the body further, but I reminded myself this was not my investigation. This was also not my turf. What had been my turf, before I was let go, was 1500 miles to the east. I didn’t need to rile the local law. But then I had already done that with that pinhead Deputy Powell. His attitude had pushed the wrong buttons in me. So, what the hell? At least I could check around the area for clues to the mystery of this man’s death. I still had plenty of time before the Deputy arrived.

I turned around and looked up. The cliff was probably 100 feet high with no chance of scaling it at this point. So I went in reverse on the trail where I entered the ravine for perhaps an eighth of a mile to reach a steep but navigable slope. It looked like a long hot climb, but upward I went. Maybe the dead guy had dropped something on top of the cliff, something that might help identify him.

As I climbed upward, the sun was directly in front of me, causing me to squint even from behind the protective darkness of my sunglasses. The slope was sparsely covered with bushes, which I waded through to make the climb. Small loose rocks covered the surface, and I skidded backward often as I climbed higher. Several times I came down on my knees, skinning my shins in the process. I was glad I’d chosen to wear long pants rather than shorts for my hike.

Nearing the top of the climb, I stopped to catch my breath. Looking upward to determine how much further it was to the crest of the hill, I froze. Silhouetted on the top of the next ridge in the glare of the sun were the head and shoulders of a man facing my direction. And he had a rifle aimed at me.

Chapter 3

I dropped to the ground, below the guy’s line of sight. I lost my footing on the loose rocks, sending a cascade of pebbles tumbling down the hill behind me. Falling heavily to my hands and knees, a jolt of pain shot upward from my knees to my hips.

Damn, I blurted. Thoughts of being shot out here crossed my mind. I stayed on my hands and knees for several long seconds, my heart pounding from the climb, and now racing even faster as I considered my situation.

If the man on the ridge intended to come after me, I couldn’t stay here. I was an easy unarmed target. Being unarmed probably put me in the minority in this state. And certainly going back down the slope wouldn’t improve my situation. He would still hold the high ground and be able to see me down there. So, staying in a crouched position, I quickly duck-walked several dozen paces to my left until finding the cover of a thick growth of trees. I then cautiously continued my climb upward toward the ridge, picking my way through the trees, walking quietly on the carpet of pine needles. I crawled the last dozen paces, and then got down on my stomach to peer over the ridge. I looked quickly right where the guy had been, and then left and back to the right. There was no one.

Had I imagined it? The day was hot. The sun’s glare was in my eyes. I was breathing hard and sweating profusely from the climb. But no, I had not imagined it. Someone had been there.

I scrambled over the ridge, staying low. Still no one. Then I stood and walked along the ridge to where he had been. No one. But the ground was disturbed, suggesting someone had just been there. Now that there appeared to be no immediate danger, I breathed out loudly. The pressure that had built up in my chest eased, and the adrenaline rush gradually subsided. Maybe the guy wasn’t a threat. After all, I was unharmed, and now alone again. Feeling a bit foolish, I sat down until my breathing settled, and then took some long pulls on a bottle of water.

I looked one more time over the ridge. All was quiet. So I climbed back down toward the rim of the cliff. After a few minutes of careful searching, I found a few widely spaced spots of disturbed ground leading from the forest on my right and directly to the cliff on my left. This could be the route the dead guy down below had taken. Nothing lay on the ground that he might have dropped, no backpack, no water bottle. But his trail was now disturbed by my scramble up the slope to the ridge beyond. I had unintentionally messed some more with the Deputy’s crime scene. So be it.

By now, it probably had been over a half hour since my call to the deputy, so I could be expecting company soon. I placed a small pyramid of stones near the runner’s trail to mark the area. Climbing back down the slope, with all the loose rocks under foot, I had to concentrate on each step to avoid a face-first tumble. Instead of a face-first fall, I twice landed hard on my butt when the loose surface slipped away from under my feet. After reaching the bottom, I settled in a shady spot near the cliff face to cool off, wiped the sweat from my face, and finished drinking my bottle of water.

After several minutes, with no appearance of the Deputy, I grew bored with waiting and walked back over toward the body. I retraced my previous track, stepping in my own footprints. The vulture was gone. He must have gone in search of a different meal. Or perhaps this body wasn’t yet ripe enough to suit him.

But something was wrong. There was no sound of buzzing flies. That buzzing had been the sound that originally drew me over here. I stopped where my earlier trail of footprints ended. This was the place. I saw the small pool of blood on the ground. But the body was gone.

Chapter 4

I’ve seen many bodies at the spot where they died or had been dumped. I’ve seen a few bodies that were clearly moved short distances in an attempt to conceal them, or to make a murder look like an accident or suicide. But once I had arrived at the scene and had seen a body, it never moved. And it certainly never disappeared. Until this morning. I was beginning to wonder what my horoscope had been for today.

I wasn’t hallucinating. There had been a body. As ridiculous as it felt, I confirmed that by viewing the pictures I’d taken of the corpse with my cell phone camera. The guy was there, in this very spot. The small pool of dried blood was still visible on the ground. I mentally ticked off my other observations after first finding the body. There was the putrid odor. His eyes were open and unblinking. He was being attacked by flies and a buzzard. When I grasped the wrist, I had not felt a pulse. He was clearly dead. So he did not get up and walk away.

The hour I had been gone on my climb up the slope seemed like a narrow window of time for the body to be removed. Yet it was clearly gone. He could have been carried or dragged away. By an animal? Adult mountain lions are large enough to drag a body away, and I had read they roam all over Montana. Or taken by the guy with the rifle? Either way, being unarmed, I was not in a position of strength.

Despite being unarmed, I stepped forward anyway because I saw something. There were two parallel scuffmarks in the dirt leading away from me, as if the body was dragged with its toes leaving a trail. After a few yards, the scuff marks ended and were replaced by clearly defined imprints in the soft earth continuing in the same direction. Not a mountain lion. Human footprints. Someone, not something, took the body. These prints weren’t left by the worn soles of the dead guy’s shoes. They looked more like boot prints with a clear pattern of ridges.

I ran to overtake the body snatcher. He couldn’t be too far ahead of me. After all, he was carrying the dead weight of another person. The track of prints and crumpled vegetation went straight away from the cliff face and toward a small rise ahead. The track did not waver, even over this uneven ground, suggesting the weight of the body was not much of a burden for the snatcher. A strong guy. Clearing the rise, there was a drop-off of several feet. I jumped down the embankment and saw that the boot prints continued down there. Then they ended abruptly. They were replaced by parallel widely spaced tire impressions that wound off into the scrub. I couldn’t see or hear any vehicle. Whoever had been here was already gone.

I prepared to follow, but knew better. I couldn’t run to catch up with a vehicle. And I couldn’t just wander away, even if it was in pursuit of a possible suspect. The Deputy had my name and phone number. He expected to find me here. And he also expected to find a body. What a screw up this had turned into.

I sullenly walked back toward the cliff. A nice day turned to crap. I had called to report a body. I didn’t stay put as ordered. Instead, I wandered away from the body and up the hill. Now the body was gone. I broke a basic rule by not securing the possible crime scene because I had assumed that there was no harm in it, and that there really was no crime anyway. After all, it was a case of a guy just falling off a cliff, wasn’t it? Maybe I had been gone from the police force too long. This was not my problem, but I stuck my nose in anyway. Now it was my problem for sure.

After a few more minutes, I heard the sound of an engine approaching up Monarch Trail. I saw what looked like a solitary uniformed figure on an ATV, an all-terrain vehicle, approaching fast. It was one of those side-by-side, 2-seater models with a steel rollover frame around the passenger compartment. This must be the Deputy. He skidded to a stop next to me as he braked, kicking up a small cloud of dust and pebbles. He jumped off the ATV.

He was maybe 25 with a smooth face. He was clean-shaven, but it appeared he would have difficulty growing a full beard even if he didn’t shave. He looked almost baby-faced. But there was nothing babyish about him otherwise. He was big, probably six foot six, somewhere north of 250 pounds. No bulging muscles, perhaps even a bit flabby in the belly, but still powerful with his thick arms and legs. He towered over me. He had big black boots, really big boots, much larger than my size 12. He wore a brown police uniform and wide-brimmed hat. Over the breast pocket of the shirt was stitched Willow Run Police Department.

Skipping introductions, he blurted out, Where’s the body?

Deputy Powell? I’m Nathan Parker, the one who called…..

Yeah, yeah, I already figured that out, he said impatiently. Where’s the body?

Let me just take you through what……

We can talk later. He then continued, speaking very slowly and enunciating each word clearly. For the last time, where is the body?

His face was turning red with anger. He had already lost patience with me. But I hoped by taking it a bit slowly that I might explain this mess away. There was no reason for this to be a confrontation. After all, we were both on the same side, weren’t we?

It was over there, I said, trying to be firm about it, but it came out sounding a bit sheepish.

"What do you mean was? I told you don’t mess with my crime scene." His red face was now contorted, the veins stuck out on his neck, and he sprayed spittle in my direction as he spoke.

First, let me show you some pictures of what I saw. Not wanting to spook him, I slowly retrieved my cell phone from my shirt pocket and flipped it open to display the pictures taken earlier. I scrolled slowly through the shots.

At first, he watched with impatient disinterest. But gradually he admitted, OK, so maybe you found a body. His anger had subsided. Then he spoke slowly, clearly, and firmly. Now show it to me.

I led him to the spot where the body had been and pointed out the pool of dried blood. I squatted down, and he followed suit. The body was here. I pointed to a spot on the ground. You can see the blood stain there.

He slowly stood up. He outwardly remained surprisingly controlled for someone who moments ago seemed ready to remove my head. But even though I could not see his eyes under his wide-brimmed hat and sunglasses, I could feel the laser of his stare penetrating me. Mister, please don’t tell me you dragged me all the way out here for a blood stain.

No, there was a body, I said, sounding more like a child trying to convince a parent the boogieman was under the bed. You saw the pictures.

What I see is a blood stain. Don’t even know if it’s human.

But there was a body, right here, I pleaded my case, pointing to the ground. You saw the pictures.

He clenched his jaws and hung his head in seeming pity that I was stuck with being me. I could feel him becoming more distant, starting to disengage, to lose interest in my story. I see you then managed to add your own footprints to the scene. He gestured toward the jumble of footprints on the ground. Tell me more.

At least now he seemed ready to listen. I waited for you over there in the shade. I intentionally left out the part about climbing up the slope, finding the trail of prints, and the guy with the rifle. I had to spoon-feed him only what occurred down here, since I was probably in enough legal peril already, without adding all the details. When I came back over here just before you arrived, the body was gone.

He looked back down at the ground, hands on hips, exhaling slowly but loudly. It was as if he was disappointed in me as an entity, a failed experiment of the human race.

My earlier impulse to investigate the scene had caught up to me. When I was a cop, I could rightly gather the facts and follow where the evidence led. And I had fallen back on that habit, aggressively chasing the evidence. But I was rusty. And as a private citizen, I had no authority, no standing to do that. I had no practical option but to tell him more to defend my actions.

Deputy, I am an ex-cop from Cincinnati. I was out here hiking. I found a body. I called 9-1-1. They transferred me to you. While I was waiting, over there in the shade, someone took the body. There is a trail of footprints leading from this spot and over that ridge. I followed it. Whoever took the body then got into a vehicle and drove away. It was probably only a few minutes ago. There may still be time to catch up to him. We can use your ATV.

He listened to all this without interrupting, even nodding his head in understanding. If I could see his eyes, it would help me sense his mood better. But his eyes remained hidden behind the dark glasses. Regardless, I felt certain I was winning him over. So I continued.

Let’s follow the trail, I suggested, turning and taking a long stride in that direction.

My backpack was ripped off, jerking me backward. A hand grabbed my collar and propelled me down onto my knees. A forearm into my mid-back sent me sprawling face down onto the ground. A knee in my back pinned me there. Within seconds, I heard the click of handcuffs securing my wrists behind me.

Chapter 5

I struggled with Deputy Powell as he flung me to the ground and handcuffed me. Yet in spite of that, he had easily handled me without any hint that it was a struggle. I was sweating, and my heart was pounding. He wasn’t even breathing hard. He leaned in close to my ear and calmly spoke.

Mister, for your own protection, I am detaining you. He continued calmly and forcefully. What I think happened today is this. You were out here hiking. You found a guy lying on the ground. You thought he was dead. He wasn’t. He got up, walked over that ridge to his vehicle, and drove away. No body, no crime, unless we include you not calling for medical help for someone who was probably seriously injured. Or if we include you calling in a false report of a corpse. And even if there was a body, you messed with my crime scene. He stopped to let that sink into my clearly dense skull.

He then continued, as if comforting a village idiot. Here is also what I think. If you are, as you say, an ex-cop, you probably miss the action, so you let your active imagination run away with you. It is a hot day, and you look dirty and tired from hiking. It was easy to let it all influence your thinking. So what we are going to do is this. We are going into town and have a chat, just you, me, and the Sheriff. Got that?

He remained remarkably calm, and I might go so far as to say even eloquent, considering the circumstances. But he was right. I did miss the action of being a cop. Finding the corpse had started my juices flowing. It was a corpse, no doubt about it. But I decided to stop trying to convince him of