The ET Murders

By Mark Bouton

FBI agents are being brutally murdered, and a trail of bizarre clues leads to Roswell and Area 51. Agent Max Austin uncovers an unearthly connection to the killings. He's amazed by the wealth of information about otherworldly contacts, and the deeper he examines the possibilities, the more he fears an alarming motive. Can a dramatic showdown at Area 51 stop a war of the worlds?

• Language: English
• Publisher: Mark Bouton
• Release date: Sep 12, 2013
• ISBN: 9781301144952

Mark Bouton

After earning a law degree at the Oklahoma University School of Law, I entered the FBI. I worked as a Special Agent for 30 years, mostly working criminal cases and some terrorism. I worked in New York, Chicago, Puerto Rico, Texas, and Kansas. I arrested killers, kidnappers, and bank robbers, and played a key role in identifying the Oklahoma City bombers. I'm married and have four sons, and I live on a horse ranch in Kansas. I enjoy reading and writing, exercising, and playing my electric guitar. To date, I've written six novels and one non-fiction book. I'll soon be working on a non-fiction book and another novel.

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Previous books by Mark Bouton

Max Conquers the Cosmos, 2003, Five Star Books (Cengage), Maine

ISBN 1-59414-072-3

. . . absolute stunner of an action novel . . . exhilarating action and page-turning suspense . . .

—New Mystery Reader

. . . excellent debut mystery . . . will keep you glued to the pages . . .

—Bestsellers World

. . . found myself totally engrossed in the investigation . . .

—Murder and Mayhem

It’s a rare treat to get to read a debut mystery by somebody like Mark Bouton who really knows what he’s writing about. I hope Max explores the cosmos of crime and quantum mechanics for many more books.

—Nancy Pickard, best-selling and award-winning author of The Scent of Rain and Lightning and The Virgin of Small Plains

. . . an engaging story with real characters in a real setting.

—Books ‘n Bytes

. . . fast-paced and witty . . . intelligent writing . . .

—Writer Space

No one understands the classic American mystery better than Mark Bouton. Max Conquers the Cosmos contains echoes of Chandler, Hammett, and even Carl Hiaasen, brought to life with Bouton’s own sense of style. Fans of the hardboiled mystery are sure to enjoy this book.

—William Bernhardt, best-selling author of Silent Justice and Capitol Offense

. . . an appealing series hero . . . Bouton keeps the suspense level high throughout the tale . . . promising debut.

—Booklist

The protagonist is a hero to the max.

—Midwest Book Review

Raymond Chandler strikes again—Sam Spade meets J. Edgar Hoover. Only a seasoned FBI veteran with Bouton’s talent and style could pull this off.

—Stephanie Kane, author of Blind Spot, Quiet Time, and Extreme Indifference

Max Unlocks the Universe, 2006, Five Star Mysteries, (Cengage) Maine ISBN 1-59414-488-5

It is always a pleasure to read a crime novel by somebody who used to be there . . . all the makings of a great read. Highly recommended.

—Jeremiah Healy, author of Turnabout and Off-Season

. . . it’s hard to resist genial, down-to-earth Max.

—Kirkus Reviews

Bouton’s prose is explosive. His books are unputdownable.

—Joe Konrath, best-selling author of Whiskey Sour, Bloody Mary, Rusty Nail, and other Lt. Jack Daniels mysteries

Cracks in the Rainbow, 2005, Five Star Mysteries (Cengage) Maine

ISBN 1-59414-349-8

Jackhammer dialogue and breakneck pacing highlight this action-packed L.A. thriller. Fans who like their heroes hard-fisted and soft-hearted will find a treasure here.

—William Kent Krueger, award-winning author, Cork O’Connor series

. . . Bouton comes out with all guns blazing! Crisp dialogue and credible police procedure from a law enforcement professional lifts this novel above the rest. Don’t miss it.

—Libby Fischer Hellmann, author of the Ellie Foreman mystery-thrillers

The Second Savior, 2009, Five Star Mysteries (Cengage), Maine

ISBN-13: 9798-1-59414-766-1

ISBN-10: 1-59414-766-3

. . . greased-lightning plot.

—Kirkus Reviews

This fast-paced police procedural hooks the audience with the opening sequence and never slows down as the cops battle the gangs on the streets of L.A. with a touch of religious mysticism brought to the plot by Jake. The story line is filled with action while feeling like a chess game is occurring. Although a key scene when Stagger shoots at the priest and Dover should be enough to arrest him especially with other witnesses, but does not detract from an otherwise exciting thriller of the police working a gang war slaying.

—Harriet Klausner, Top Mystery Reviewer

"Author Mark Bouton is a former FBI agent whose years of experience bring much to this story. The rapport between Dover and Falcon brings their personalities to light and adds to the story.

Bouton allows the reader to understand the motives of those on both sides of the law no matter how vile the characters may be. It is obvious Bouton took the time to get to know his characters and understand their motives. Even the bad guys have a depth not usually seen in this type of novel.

Because the story is set in LA, Bouton takes every opportunity to insert a touch of humor by allowing the detectives to name drop the rich and famous with great abandon.

Discerning readers will realize the spiritual thread that winds its way through the novel.

The Second Savior is a worthy follow-up to Cracks in the Rainbow. Hopefully, the author is hard at work developing more stories about Dover and Falcon."

—Edie Dykeman, Mystery Editor, BellaOnline.com.

How to Spot Lies Like the FBI, non-fiction, 2010, Cosmic Wind Press Havensville, KS ISBN 978-0-615-37186-3

I’m a clinical psychologist/mystery writer and recommend this book whenever I give a workshop. I’ve also recommended it to several clients. It’s a terrific look into lie detection--it’s packed with information, it’s timely and it’s entertaining. Absolutely a must-read. The author, Mark Bouton, is a retired FBI agent and is one of the few people I know who has the street cred to sift through all the scientific studies, add his own anecdotes, draw on his experience with the Bureau and come up with a book that is highly readable and worth keeping as a reference book. It is a classic in the field. I also enjoy his novels--they’re action-packed with white-knuckle suspense and enough plot twists and turns to keep you turning the pages.

—Mary Kennedy, Clinical Psychologist, Mystery Writer, Speaker

"Mark’s How to Spot Lies is so very informative, backed up with pictures of facial expressions & body language to demonstrate what he is telling his readers. His background explains so much about his knowledge of his subject (or/and) subjects. His examples are excellent & in today’s world of computer language, mobile phones, cyberspace,( just a small sample of what’s out there) & the capabilities of all of these expose us to all manner of falsification. The more knowledge we have to help us see thru the subterfuge, the better. It’s a book to read & reread. Keep it by your phone or computer & refer to it often. Thanks Mark!"

—M&M, Reviewers

Mark Bouton has written a book that transcends all levels of society. Whether you’re a professional, student, housewife, regardless of your age, this book gives a pragmatic insight into why and how people tell lies. The author discusses what to look for in terms of speech patterns and body language. What’s really practical is that anyone can benefit from reading this tome. It contains common sense advice on how to deal with your boss, co-workers, even your children. This is a book that is not only interesting but useful. It should be required reading, particularly for police officers.

—John M. Wills, writer, former police officer and FBI agent

The Sacrifice, 2012, Oak Tree Press, Taylorville, Illinois

ISBN 1610091973

Jack Ransom, a soulful renaissance man at heart, must stop the kidnapping of an innocent infant from becoming a horrific murder. As Jack and his sharp-witted partner Kathy Devereaux search for clues, they each must come to terms with events in their personal lives, challenges any reader can identify with. The most unique character is the one with many voices; Mark Bouton’s narration gives a gritty depth to this enjoyable story.

—Reed Leon, Amazon Top Reviewer

"Mark Bouton has led me once again into a fast paced book that intrigues and twists and turns. Finding out who the suspects are is the game at hand. Suspense builds and when you think you know who did it, the door shuts and again the pursuit is on. Bouton’s amusing sayings inject humor once more. Plus a bit of lust!

A good read..... the last sixty pages cannot be put down. A very human, heartfelt touch is saved for the last couple of pages. Read the book itself....not the Kindle version and pass it onto a friend."

—Mary Kate Denny, Photographer and Reviewer, Los Angeles, CA

"Mark Bouton is rapidly carving a niche for himself among the country’s top crime-suspense writers.

In The Sacrifice, Bouton spares the reader the ubiquitous clichés too often found in such works, and gets right to the essence and suspense of the law enforcement he knows so well.

With no tip-of-the-hat to sentimentality or the maudlin, Bouton places the reader in the center of the most chilling of crimes. His characters become ‘real’ people, showing the best and the worst of mankind.

The Sacrifice is a nail-biting, shudder-causing good read—just to my taste."

—Max Yoho, writer, humorist, speaker, Topeka, Kansas

Acknowledgments

Many thanks to the members of my writing groups for their help, encouragement, and support in creating this novel. This includes the members of the Kansas Authors’ Club, the Kansas Writers, Inc. group, and the Write Stuff group. I appreciate and applaud the members of the FBI and other law enforcement agencies for their devotion to preserving law and order in this world. Their activities serve as a model for my books. Thanks to my agent, Kirsten Neuhaus, Foundry Media Literary Agency, New York, NY, for her advice and support. And I appreciate the assistance of Dennis Smirl as a reader and advisor for this book. I also must express my admiration and thanks to the groups and individuals working to assess whether we are alone in this Universe. Their publications and discussions have informed the construct of this book in exploring this vital question, while I also seek to solve the mystery and curious enigma of the continuing violence and murder of our own species in this world.

Dedication

This book is dedicated to my cousins, Wayne A. Bouton and Anita Bouton Brenholtz. Love you guys.

Table of Contents

Previous Books

Acknowledgments and Dedication

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Chapter 32

Chapter 33

Chapter 34

Chapter 1

In this sun-dappled backyard, with its carpet of emerald grass and lavender splashes of blossoming redbuds, my nerves feel jumpy, my flesh clammy, and my throat so tight I can barely breathe . . . but still, I’m drawn toward the horror. A sigh of breeze presses past, nudging Bill Harper’s body, strung up from a limb of a budding maple. I can’t stop thinking he looks like a field-dressed deer.

The blood-smeared corpse seems surreal in itself. But then there’s the mutilation, the unholy desecration of a human form. What monstrous force could have done this. And why?

I’ve seen men sprawled in gore after shootouts, a robber shot dead before me, a crazed bomber punished with mangled bowels. The FBI has its moments. But I’m struggling with my repulsion from this grisly act, as I’ve never before seen a murdered agent, and never anyone so maimed. The whole scene defines gruesome. It’s almost—

What do you make of it, Max? Hank Nathensen says, his voice cracking.

My thoughts are shattered, and I’m caught off guard. For a moment, I forgot he was standing here. I examine his pale, shadowed face. His tough Bureau facade seems to waver, like a building in a rumbling quake. He’s shaking his head just a bit, in wishful denial, I suppose.

We look back at the atrocity. The broken figure’s beset by buzzing flies and illuminated in patches by streaks of sunlight that arrow through the limbs. I cough, fighting a sick-to-the-gut feeling.

Drug lords do this, Hank, but it’s rare. My mouth feels as dry as campfire ashes, and my neck and ears must be crimson. My chest is on fire with fury.

Hank is a stalwart in the small FBI office in Topeka. He’s well-versed in the protocol of handling a crime scene, collecting evidence, preserving it. Still, though he clutches a camera, he has yet to take the compulsory shots.

Dressed like that, he says, licking his lips, he probably got jumped in the dark. Bill’s clad only in boxers and a tee shirt. They’re probably his sleeping clothes.

Hank’s right. I’m guessing someone lured him out here last night. I’ll bet it took a pack of the cowards, I say. Bill was a brawny guy—boxed Golden Gloves in his youth, and kept in shape for the job—never one to back down from a subject resisting arrest. And as his body hangs suspended above us, I note that his face shows patches of swelling, and three parallel scratches shine on his right cheek. His body’s bloody and bruised, and then there’s the awful defilement, the unspeakable treatment.

People often say a human has acted like an animal when they treat another person with such agonizing cruelty. But an animal wouldn’t inflict such savagery upon its prey. Predators kill to eat. They don’t do it to torture their mark or to terrify other creatures.

Who called it in? I ask.

A next-door neighbor, Mr. Jones, Hank says, thumbing toward the adjoining yard. He spotted Bill hanging there when he let his dog out this morning a little after seven. He called the police, and then Detective Bagley called me at home.

After Hank took the call about the murder from Bagley, he called me and the other agents to meet him here. Two uniformed patrolmen have taped off the crime scene. And now I see the good detective striding toward us.

Sorry, I got held up, he says. He shakes hands with us, then looks at Bill’s body. Damn, they told me it was a bad one. But I wasn’t expecting this.

There’s a pause, the sound of songbirds trilling their morning prayers. Hank pushes back a forelock of thick white hair. Jeff reaches for a cigar in his jacket pocket, jamming it, unlighted, into his mouth. We all consider the grotesque scene. After a few moments, I say, They call it a Cartegena necktie.

We study the bloody gash in the front of Bill’s throat. His tongue is pulled through the slit with a sturdy hook piercing it, the attached rope tied off to a thick limb. His body’s suspended four or five feet off the ground. So incongruous, I’m thinking, that nature has brought spring stirrings, a primeval awakening in our small Kansas town, as if all of life is renewed and vivacious. But in the stultifying closeness of this backyard setting, where we’re trapped by cruel reality, Death displays a chilling sneer.

What do you think, Jeff? I say. Five or six hours ago? Rigor has set in down to his legs. And he has some petechiae on his face and thighs.

Shrugging, he says, I buy that. But the ME should be here any minute.

Hank, I say, is the Evidence Response Team coming?

He grunts. They’re barreling down here in the evidence van. The driver said they’d make it from Kansas City in 45 minutes.

Listen, Jeff says, you guys have primary jurisdiction, but we’ll help however we can.

That’s fine, Hank says. Then his gaze goes back to Bill’s body. He appears to be in shock.

Jeff, your guys have the scene taped off, I say, and they’re providing security on the back yard perimeter. That’s a big help. I think about the situation for a moment. I expect the press will show up any minute. Maybe some patrolmen could keep them at arm’s length.

Sure, Max, I’ll call for a couple of cars.

Pausing, I check around the area. Maybe you could take some photos, and then our techs can handle the close-in stuff."

I have to admit, I have more confidence in FBI agents’ investigations, especially my own, than those of others. Maybe it’s because I’m a perfectionist, or perhaps just because I have the experience. With twenty-two years in the FBI and a couple as a PI, I’ve developed a technique of focusing on the global view of a crime scene, sitting above it as if on an orbiting satellite—sort of an eye in the sky.

Jeff nods, then hitches up his pants, but his .45 weighs them back down. It’s a handy cannon in a blast-first-and-take-names-later fight. And he once saved my life with his shooting skills.

No problem, Max. He sniffs and runs a finger under his nose. And I’m really sorry about this, fellas. Bill was a great agent and a helluva guy.

Damn straight, I say, and I stare a moment at the blameless blue sky.

Then I turn to Hank. Where’s Bill’s wife?

He extends a thick arm to the west. A neighbor said Barb’s visiting her sister in Manhattan. She was going to stay the weekend, then come home late this afternoon.

Have you called her?

I called Sheila in the Manhattan RA. She’s on her way to talk with Barb. She’ll try to break the news as gently as she can, then she’ll ask Barb if she knows anything that we should check out. When Barb is ready, Sheila will follow her back here to make sure she arrives safely.

Good thinking, I say.

And then I spot the other two agents from the Topeka office, arriving at the crime scene perimeter, standing there as stiff as flamingos. Framed by forsythia that’s razor-sharp yellow, they’re staring at Bill’s body, mouths open, eyes bugged in disbelief. They notice me looking their way, and we nod. There’s not much to say at this point. We all just want to figure out what the hell’s going on.

Hank, I say, you’d better get some pics.

He stares at the camera in his hand. Yeah, I suppose so.

And watch where you step, I remind him with a nudge. His size 13 shoes could stomp on a lot of evidence. He was a former linebacker.

Lots of agents played sports. I mostly lifted weights and practiced karate. But then came my car wreck three years ago that resulted in a lower back injury. My high kicks went by the wayside; I had a lot of pain and a bad hitch in my walking. Now Hank glances over at me, then he continues to move around the body, snapping picture after picture.

I got despondent, enough so that I gave up and retired early. Then Amy, a friend, talked me into trying an operation a year ago. It helped enough that I applied and got reinstated as an agent. I still have a slight limp, and the ordeal makes me empathetic for those who have never had good coordination.

I guess that’s enough shots, says Hank.

My thoughts return to the moment, but when I nod at Hank, then look back at the body, my emotions rise up, unguarded. My stomach turns over, and bile surges to my throat. Excuse me, I manage to say before stumbling to the edge of the yard, where I hold it . . . hold it back . . . then gag and retch. I have to fight doing it again. Feeling eyes on me, I breathe in through my nose, then spit, ridding myself of saliva and shame. I’ve come close to heaving before, but it’s never hit me this hard. Seems I must be getting soft.

Be back in a few minutes, I say, limping toward the front of the house. I need to compose myself, and I also want to see where the assailants could have lain in wait, come up to the house unnoticed, and done their dirty deed. I like to view a crime scene through the subjects’ perspectives, though I realize you can never get totally inside their screwed-up heads. And I really don’t want to. There’s enough madness in the normal world.

I take it from the top. First, I check out the curb appeal. It’s a nice house, but no upscale mansion. Ranch style, composition roof, three bedrooms. On a personal level, they have no kids. But, come to think of it, they have a dog—a Doberman named Sam.

And now I note the garage door is raised about six inches. Maybe they keep Sam in there at night. I’ll bet the door’s up to give him some air.

So, I stretch out on the driveway in front of the door and peer inside. Nothing’s visible in the front part of the garage where some sun leaks in. Bill’s old Mustang is parked to one side of the double parking space. His Bureau car is still outside on the driveway, and I’ll check that in a minute. But it’s pretty dark in the back of the garage and also beneath the Mustang, so I pull a small Mag lite from a holder on my belt and shine it across the concrete floor, searching for hidden secrets.

I see nothing beneath the Mustang, but in the back, next to a couple of trash cans, I spot a dark form lying on the concrete. I run the light over it, and sure enough, it’s Sam, lying on his side. For a moment, I think he’s dead. He seems as stiff as a possum. But then his tongue comes out and rakes along the side of his mouth.

I call to him, Sam, are you all right?

His head jerks upward, then settles back onto the garage floor. I call to him again, and his eyes open halfway, then shift toward me. He seems to sigh, and a shudder travels along the length of his slim body. He yawns and lifts his head again, but it’s wobbly. He must have been drugged. And now I spot a partially chewed T-bone near him on the floor. Someone planned this well.

Bagley comes around the side of the house, and I sit up, brushing dust off my jacket sleeves.

You doin’ okay? His brown eyes show empathy. That’s unusual for a cop.

"Fine, Jeff. Thanks. I just checked the garage, and Bill’s dog is lying in there.

Yeah? Is he all right?

I explain my thoughts about Sam being drugged. Jeff takes a look into the garage, then stands up with a grunt. He does look groggy.

And now Hank approaches us, his mouth taut, forehead lined. The three of us stand together, talking in low voices, as we discuss the strange situation, but no one has any answers, not even any plausible conjectures. It’s all too bizarre—like a meteorite that roars across the sky, angling toward the Earth, and strikes a car, killing one person.

Hank’s cell phone sounds off. He answers it, listens a moment, then steps away from us. Within seconds he says, That’s great, thanks.

Suddenly, a van pulls to the curb behind us. Startled, I reach for my Glock. But then I see it’s the examiner.

Jeff gives me a look, but says nothing. He waves the examiner over to fill him in. It’s Gunther Wahrmach, the forensic pathologist for the county. He’s wearing a sports coat that looks as wrinkled and baggy as his normal lab coat. Skinny as a scarecrow and half as handsome, he pushes up his silver-rimmed spectacles and greets us without a smile. Where is he?

Around back, Bagley says. C’mon. He leads the severe-featured man to the scene of the slaughter. As they walk away, I notice Gunther’s shoulder blades poke at the fabric of his worn jacket, and he appears more hunched than usual. His job must take a toll that none of us knows.

Let’s see if Gunther has any startling pronouncements, says Hank. Then we’ll go inside and look around.

What? I reply. I’m surprised, because we have no warrant.

Sheila just called. Barb gave us permission to search the house, cars, whatever we need.

Okay, good.

Max, would you look over Bill’s Bureau car with Alex?

Sure, Hank. And, uh . . . how about checking on Bill’s dog in the garage? Just make sure he has water and maybe some food.

Oh, yeah . . . I’ll do that.

Great. We’ll see you inside when we’re done here.

He turns and follows Bagley and Wahrmach, pausing to talk with the other two agents, Alex and Pete. The veteran agent, Alex, is medium height but stocky, a weight-lifter. He stands erect, listening to Hank without comment.

Pete’s young and slim, and he looks down from his vantage point of six-foot-six, nodding as Hank fills them in. Pete has an apprehensive demeanor. But hell, we’re all that way to some degree. This is a tough situation to absorb. Now Hank and Pete head toward the back door, which will presumably be unlocked. Alex walks toward me.

We exchange greetings, then we survey the Dodge sedan. I’m sure it’s locked, meaning we’ll have to locate the keys inside the house somewhere, but here goes nothing. With my handkerchief in hand, I tug on the front passenger handle, and the door comes open. Jeez.

Alex says, You want to take the front, and I’ll do the back seat and the trunk?

Sounds good, but I think I’ll take a few photos first. I stride over to my Bureau car, a dark blue Chevy, to retrieve my digital camera. Then I start clicking some shots around the outside of the car. I don’t see any damage or suspicious marks on it, and I’m guessing that the killers probably didn’t bother with it. But I look back inside, and there’s a briefcase on the front passenger seat. I take a picture of it. I see nothing in the back seat or on the floor.

Now I slip on a pair of white cotton gloves and look beneath the front seats. There are some bits of trash—a drinking straw, a paperclip, a ballpoint pen. Nothing under the front seat floor mats except for a crumpled, dirty receipt for a can of pop and a candy bar bought at the Kwik Shop at the corner of Sixth and MacVicar here in town. It’s probably not important, as it’s dated almost three weeks ago.

I look through the glove compartment. There’s the instruction book for the car, a receipt for a recent oil change, a couple of pens and a small notepad with about half the pages ripped out, and a pair of black leather gloves. There’s also a small pair of binoculars in a case.

Time to check the briefcase. To my surprise, it’s not locked. There are a group of forms for various situations such as arrests, confessions, consent to search, and receipts for property taken during a search. And I note the obligatory maps, pads of paper, pens, and a pair of steel alloy handcuffs. There are also some items that come in handy in the investigative field: a magnifying glass, cotton gloves, flex-cuffs, a pocket knife, tire gauge, wrench, two screwdrivers, and a booklet with numbers for law enforcement agencies.

Also in his briefcase are a couple of case folders with some sheets of paper in each of them. One deals with a jewelry store robbery that happened a few weeks ago. The other looks like a drug case of some kind. It lists several subjects, including Juan Ramirez, Moses Alvarez, and Paco Padilla. It’s titled as a RICO investigation—a Racketeer-Influenced Corrupt Organization case. Some type of Mexican mob involvement, I’d venture.

The case originated in Texas. Bill had some leads to interview several men in Topeka. He has notes that show he talked with one of the potential suspects three days ago. I skim what was said.

Alex, who has been rooting around in the back seat, opens the driver’s side door and hits a trunk release button. Did you find anything, Max?

I tell Alex what’s in the briefcase. Then I say, Bill interviewed a guy recently in a drug case. This Fernando Lanza, also known as Nando, provided zero information. In fact, he seems in this interview to know nothing about what Bill was asking. He claimed he didn’t know the defendants, had no contact with them or anyone in any group to which they belonged, never been in trouble with the law, never used or sold drugs.

Was he lying? Alex asks.

Of course. Telephone records sent with the lead show that Nando had received several calls from one of the subjects of the case within the past two months. He also has a criminal record including armed robbery and an arrest for possession of cocaine and drug paraphernalia, currently pending prosecution. I think we’ll have to visit Señor Lanza.

Yep, let’s put him on our agenda, says Alex.

Now a car pulls into the driveway. Oh, hell, it’s Bill’s wife, Barb. She stops behind Bill’s Bureau car. Sheila is following her, and she pulls into an empty spot alongside the curb behind one of the police cars. Barb sits in her car for a few moments, staring at Bill’s car, then the house. Imagining, I’m sure, what it will be like to live there alone, unprotected. What an unfair horror for her to have to face.

Alex looks up from the open trunk as Barb gets out of her car. Moving forward, she seems pale and unsteady. Alex reaches out to her. They grasp hands, and he says, I’m so sorry, Barb. We’re all just . . . so sorry.

She gives him a strained smile and thanks him. Then she looks at me and raises her trembling chin as if she’s saying thanks for being there. I can tell she’s too overcome with emotion to speak. I nod back at her.

Sheila comes over to stand beside her. They exchange a look, then Barb purses her lips as she stares at the house, and now the two of them head for the front porch. I’m sure Barb doesn’t yet know how empty the house will seem.

I shake my head. What is there to do? Nothing that will establish order to her life ever again.

Now Pete walks out the front door, speaks briefly with Barb and Sheila, and then strides toward us. He says they’re about through with the preliminary search.

Did you find anything? I ask.

Not really, says Pete, shrugging. Nothing that seems important right now. He glances at Alex, then back to me. What do you think happened here, Max? What’s going on?

Hell, Pete, I say, looking upward at him, I don’t know. We’re always upsetting someone—no one likes to be caught doing their special brand of mischief. But this is beyond the pale.

For a minute, we stand in silence, thinking about what this means. I’m wondering whether we, as FBI agents, are also in danger. And can we find out who did this and put them away?

Now Hank comes outside, and we talk about the search. Everything inside the house seems normal, he says, but he’s about to search the master bedroom. I tell Hank about Bill’s files in