The paleontologist spoke up. “It’s a fair price for what we’ve uncovered so far, more than anyone has ever been compensated . . . And there’s the profit sharing.”

Randy laughed and returned his hat to his head with a tug, settling it hard on his forehead. “Sheriff, do you know what she’s worth? One smaller than this in the Black Hills went for over eight million dollars twenty years ago.”

I shook my head. “I don’t even know what we’re talking about.”

Baumann looked a little embarrassed but then provided the much-needed information. “A Saurischia, suborder Theropoda, genus . . .”

“A T. rex.” The rancher began yelling again. “Maybe the largest and most complete ever found.”

Baumann shook his head. “We don’t know that until we get the rest of her.”

Unable to contain his enthusiasm, Randy yelped, “We measured the exposed fossil bones, and Jen’s a lot bigger than the one at the Field Museum in Chicago—probably the biggest in the world!”

I couldn’t help but ask, “She?”

Baumann answered, “We can’t tell what sex it is, but generally the larger ones are female.”

Vic laughed. “Why Jen?”

Dave gestured toward the young woman still filming while leaning against the front of the SUV. “Jennifer was the one who found her, and usually you use either the Latin, or a place name, or the name of the person who discovered the specimen for its name.” He continued to shake his head as he glanced back at Randy. “Anyway, it really doesn’t matter. I already paid for the find, and I’m not paying again.”

Randy approached him, sticking his nose inches from Dave’s face. “Well, who the hell did you pay, ’cause it sure wasn’t me.”

“Your father—I paid Danny.”

He took a deep breath and swung around to look at all of us, his fists planted at his hips. “Then I guess we’ll have to wait for the old man to get back from fishing to find out about that.”

2

“It’s the type of asphyxia that is the direct result of liquid entering the breathing passages and preventing air from going into the lungs—in other words, all you need to do is submerge the mouth and nose.”

A full twenty-four hours later, I leaned against the wall of room 32 and watched as Isaac Bloomfield continued examining the body we’d found. “So, he did drown?”

“Not necessarily.” Peering at me through thick lenses, the doc adjusted his glasses. “The sequence of events pertaining to drowning are breath holding, involuntary inspiration and gasping for air at the breaking point, loss of consciousness, and finally, death.”

Vic folded her arms. “And then feeding the turtles.”

Isaac moved some of the hair away from Danny Lone Elk’s face, revealing the missing eyes and other assorted mutilations. “And feeding the turtles, yes.” The doc was approaching ninety and so sat on a stool he’d wheeled over to the examination table, a habit he’d picked up in his dotage.

“Randy says his father went fishing the other morning and that he didn’t come home last night.”

“That would coincide with my findings.” Isaac reached out and lifted the dead man’s hand, damaged where the turtle had attempted to make a meal of it. “I’d say he went into the water at around seven p.m. the day before yesterday.”

Vic leaned forward and looked at the devastation. “So the turtles took their time, huh?”

“I’m no expert on herpetology, but there seems to be a great deal of flesh removed from the fingers.” Isaac examined the bite marks on Danny’s hand, the ring finger having been almost severed. “But they probably wouldn’t have begun feeding on him until his body began to cool.” He looked back up at me, annoyance writ on his face. “Weren’t they worried that he’d disappeared overnight?”

I shrugged. “I guess he did it a lot; they said there are seven different fishing spots on the ranch and nobody ever knew where he went until he got back.”

“Seems irresponsible for a man his age.”

I sighed and restated my question. “So, he drowned?”

He lowered the hand and sighed. “From the initial examination, I would say reversible cerebral anoxia. Note the frothy substance emitting from the mouth and nostrils?”

“Yep.”

“Hemorrhagic edema fluid, the result of mucus in the body mixing with the water; the presence of this contributes to the prevention of air intake and the final asphyxia.”

I glanced at Vic and then back at Isaac. “So, he drowned.”

He stared at the marred features. “The only thing, Walter, was that Danny was a very good swimmer.”

“How do you know that?”

“He, like myself at one time, was a member of the Polar Bear Club.”

Vic glanced at me with an eyebrow arched like a fly rod at full strike, and I figured I’d better explain. “It’s where these crazy people get together and jump into freezing cold water in the middle of winter, usually to support a charity.”

She looked at me, incredulous. “You mean like a frozen lake?”

“Exactly.” Doc Bloomfield stood and redirected an examination light over Danny’s face. “Our chapter used to hold events out at Lake DeSmet on New Year’s Day. There was an instance where one of the younger members jumped in the hole in the ice and became disoriented. The channels are dangerous near the cliffs, but Danny here dove in and brought him back up to safety—as I said, he was an excellent swimmer.” He focused the light, the contrast making the damage to the man’s face that much more horrid. “So, how is it that he could’ve drowned in one of his own reservoirs on a beautiful day in May?”

Vic glanced at me and stepped forward to study Danny’s face. “Why did he stop doing the jump-in-and-freeze-your-ass-off party?”

Isaac carefully brushed more of the hair back. “He was getting older, and he was having drinking problems.”

“So, maybe he got plastered and then fell in the water?”

“He took pills.”

They both turned and looked at me.

Remembering the night I’d met the man, I pushed off the wall and stood over the body, reached toward the rolling table that held the dead man’s clothing, and unbuttoned the breast pocket of the same sort of green canvas shirt where I’d seen him get his pills all those years before. Fishing inside, I pulled out a prescription container and rattled the contents. Handing the waterproof bottle to the doc, I watched as he adjusted his glasses and read, “Omeprazole.” He looked up at me. “Nothing surprising here; it’s a proton pump inhibitor that blocks the enzyme lining of the stomach and decreases acid.”

“He was also chewing Tums when I first met him.”

“Danny suffered from stomach trouble his whole life.”

I gestured toward the bottle. “So this stuff is just prescription Tums?”

“Pretty much.”

“Who gave them to him?”

He read from the plastic container and handed it back to me. “A doctor in Hardin named, of all things, Free Bird.”

“You’re kidding.” I shook my head as I read the name. “Not Cheyenne or Crow, for that matter.”

Vic piped up. “Maybe he’s a Lynyrd Skynyrd fan.”

Isaac continued to study the body. “There’s something else that bothers me, Walter.” He reached out and turned Danny’s face. “The reddish coloring in the cheeks, fingers, and toes.” He examined the damaged hand again. “And there is some exfoliation on the digits, but it’s possible that that was the work of the turtles.”

I studied the pill container. “Can you get in touch with this Free Bird? In my experience, doctors tend to be a little more open with their own kind.”