THE LOCAL COPS had done their thing as had the FBI, in the person of the dour Michael Ventris. He barely gave Sean a glance after he finished explaining how he’d found Rivest’s body.

“And you came back here, why?” Ventris asked in a surly tone.

“We’d arranged to meet to go over the case. He didn’t answer the door. So I went in.” Sean kept back the part about being shot at. Until he understood the situation better, his instincts told him to keep that to himself.

Ventris said, “I’d heard the folks here had hired a private detective to come down and poke around. So you’re it?” The FBI agent didn’t look the least bit impressed.

“I’m it.”

“Piece of advice. First time you get in my way, it’ll be the last time. Got it?”

“Got it.” Sean didn’t dare ask why the FBI was investigating the death of a private citizen in the first place. It wasn’t like Monk Turing’s death; he’d been found on federal property.

Len Rivest’s remains were removed to the temporary morgue where Monk’s body lay, while the local sheriff stood looking at the now empty bathtub and shaking his head. Sean was next to him doing the same thing, but the thoughts running through his head were probably a little more complex than the ones sifting through the sheriff’s, he imagined.

Rivest was killed between the time Sean had left him around midnight and the time Sean had found him, a span of about six and a half hours. And he thought he’d seen Champ Pollion going into his bungalow around two in the morning. Thought, but wasn’t certain.

“Sheriff Merkle Hayes,” the man said, interrupting Sean’s musings. Before Sean could say anything the man added, “You’re Sean King, right?”

“That’s right.”

“Ex-Secret Service?”

“Right again.”

Hayes was in his early fifties with closely cut grayish white hair, a little potbelly, thick legs, wide bony shoulders and a slightly curved back that reduced his six-foot height a notch. “Any idea what might have happened?”

“I was with Len last night. He’d had a few drinks, maybe a few too many. I left around midnight. He was passed out on the couch downstairs.”

“So what’d you two talk about?”

Sean had been prepared for this question and had been surprised that Ventris had not asked it. “This and that. Some about Monk Turing’s death. A little about Babbage Town.”

“You think he was drunk enough to climb into this bathtub and accidentally drown himself?”

“I couldn’t say for sure that he wasn’t drunk enough to do it.”

Hayes remained silent, but nodded at this comment.

“The door was unlocked when I got here,” Sean said. “I remember locking it last night.”

Hayes said, “So either he unlocked it or…”

“Right.”

“We’ve started asking around. So far, no one saw anything. Of course the FBI’s taken the lead.”

“And why’s the FBI involved in this? Rivest wasn’t a federal employee, this isn’t federal land and no one did anything across state lines that I can see.”

“Why don’t we take a walk outside?”

Rivest’s home had been cordoned off with the standard yellow police tape as if anything could ever make a possible murder seem standard. The ambulance with Rivest’s body had just disappeared down the road. Sean glanced over at the small crowd gathered in front of the cottage and saw both Alicia Chadwick and Champ Pollion talking together in low voices.

When Alicia caught his eye, perhaps hoping he would come over, Sean quickly glanced away. He wasn’t yet ready to deal with her or Champ.

Hayes led him over to his unmarked cruiser and motioned for Sean to get in the passenger’s side. Inside the car Hayes said, “What I’m about to propose might seem a little unorthodox, but I’ll risk it. How about you and me partnering on this case?”

Sean raised an eyebrow. “Partnering? You’re a county sheriff, I’m a private detective.”

“I don’t mean formally. But it seems to me that we both have the same goal in mind. Find Rivest’s killer.”

“Doesn’t that apply to Turing as well?”

“Well, it wouldn’t be the first time a murder was made to look like a suicide.”

“Rivest seemed to think the same thing.”

“Did he now? That’s interesting. What else did he say about it?”

“That was pretty much it. But he seemed to want it to be a murder rather than a suicide, if you get my meaning. Not that wanting something makes it true.”

“We got a lot going against the murder scenario. His gun, his prints and it looked like he went to Camp Peary voluntarily.”

“Turing didn’t seem suicidal from what I’ve learned.”

“Not all of them do,” Hayes said. “I looked up your record at the Service and read about those cases you were involved in down in Wrightsburg. So what do you say? If I’m going up against the FBI, I need some help.”

“How about I get back to you after talking to my superiors?”

“How about you just say yes?”

“I tell you what, I’m working on the case anyway, cases now, I guess. So if I find something or something occurs to me, I’ll give you a holler.” He studied Hayes’s face. “But it works both ways. You flush something out, you let me know.”

Hayes considered this and finally put out his hand. “Okay. It’s a deal.” “You can do something for me right now.”

“What’s that?”

“Take me to see Monk Turing’s body at the morgue.”

THE TEMPORARY MORGUE was set up in a small, empty office in the main town area of tiny White Feather. It was staffed by a medical examiner sent over from Williamsburg who didn’t look the least bit happy being away from his home turf. He pulled Monk Turing’s body out of the portable freezer.

Monk had not been a handsome man in life and death had not improved his looks. He was short and muscular with a paunch that had been obscured by the Y-incision that had split him from his neck to his pubis. Sean tried to see a resemblance between him and his daughter, but couldn’t find one. She must take after her mother, he thought.

The ME dutifully went over his official findings with Sean. Monk Turing; age, thirty-seven; height, five-six; weight, one-seventy, etc. The man had clearly died from a gunshot wound to the right temple.

“Monk was right-handed,” Sean commented. “That would fit with the suicide theory.”

“I hadn’t gotten to that part yet,” the ME said a little suspiciously. “How’d you know?”

“Right hand’s a little bigger, more calloused. And I saw a baseball glove at his house. It wasn’t made for a left-hander.”

Hayes nodded approvingly while the ME glanced back at his notes. Sean eyed Monk’s hands again. “Looks to be some trace on his hands.”

“Ground into the palm and fingers. Reddish fragments,” the ME said.

Using what amounted to a high-tech magnifying glass, the ME showed them the traces and then laid the dead man’s hand back down.

“Looks like rust stains. Could have come from climbing the chain link fence at Camp Peary,” Hayes said.

Sean looked at the ME. “You have the clothes he was wearing?”

They were produced and examined. A pair of black corduroy trousers, a cotton, blue-striped shirt, dark jacket with a hood, underwear, socks and muddy shoes.

Hayes handed Sean a small waterproof bag. “This was found next to the body. It’s been confirmed as belonging to Turing.” Inside were a blanket and a flashlight.

“He probably used the blanket to get over the razor wire on top of the fence,” Sean said, noting some tears on the fabric. “Still a dicey proposition. No cuts on the body from the wire?”

The ME shook his head.

“Surprised we didn’t find any gloves,” Hayes added. “I mean for getting over the fence and wire.”

“Well, if he had worn gloves we wouldn’t have his prints on the gun. It’s starting to look like he killed himself, Sheriff,” Sean said.