“I want your boys to pull over any arriving press. Especially television trucks. Tie them up while we complete work here.”

“Pull them over for what?”

“Give ’em all speeding tickets. That’s what you boys are good at, right?”

The captain’s tight jaw grew even tighter. “And if they’re not speeding?”

Sheriff Hazen grinned. “Oh, they’ll be speeding, all right. You can bet your ass on it.”

Three

Deputy Sheriff Tad Franklin sat hunched over his desk, filling out reams of unfamiliar paperwork and trying to pretend that the unruly knot of television and newspaper reporters just outside the plate glass window of the Medicine Creek Sheriff’s Department didn’t exist. Tad had always liked the fact that the sheriff’s HQ was located in a former five-and-ten-cent storefront, where he could wave to passersby, chat with friends, keep tabs on who was coming or going. But now the disadvantages of the office had suddenly become obvious.

The fiery light of yet another hot August sunrise had begun spilling down the street, stretching long shadows from the news trucks and gilding the unhappy faces of the reporters. They had been up all night and things were beginning to look ugly. A steady stream came and went from Maisie’s Diner across the street, but the plain food only seemed to make them grumpier.

Tad Franklin tried to concentrate on the paperwork, but he found himself unable to ignore the tapping on the window, the questions, the occasional shouted vulgarity. This was getting intolerable. If they woke Sheriff Hazen, who was grabbing a few winks in the back cell, things might get even uglier. Tad rose, tried to put on as stern a look as possible, and cracked open a window.

“I’ll ask you once again to step back from the glass,” he said.

This was greeted with a muffled chorus of disrespectful comments, shouted questions, a general undercurrent of irritation. Tad knew from the call letters on the vans that the reporters weren’t local; they were from Topeka, Kansas City, Tulsa, Amarillo, and Denver. Well, they could just ride on back home and—

Behind him, Tad heard a door thump, a cough. He turned to see Sheriff Hazen, yawning and rubbing his stubbly chin, the hair on one side of his head sticking out horizontally. The sheriff smoothed it down, then fitted on his hat with both hands.

Tad closed the window. “Sorry, Sheriff, but these people just won’t go away—”

The sheriff yawned, waved his hand casually, turned his back on the crowd. A particularly angry reporter in the rear of the crowd shouted out a stream of invective, in which the words “redneck in miniature” could be heard. Hazen went to the coffee pot, poured a cup. He sipped it, made a face, spat the coffee back into the cup, hawked up a loogie, deposited it in the cup as well, and then poured everything back into the pot.

“Want me to get a fresh pot?” asked Tad.

“No thanks, Tad,” the sheriff replied, giving his deputy’s shoulder a gruff pat. Then he turned back to face the group through the glass once more. “These folks need something for the six o’clock news, don’t you think?” he said. “Time for a press conference.”

“A press conference?” Tad had never attended a press conference in his life, let alone been part of one. “How do you do that?”

Sheriff Hazen barked a laugh, briefly displaying a rack of yellow teeth. “We go outside and answer questions.” He went to the old glass door, unlocked it, and stuck his head out.

“How you folks all doing?”

This was greeted by a surge and an incomprehensible welter of shouted questions.

Sheriff Hazen held up an arm, palm toward the crowd. He was still wearing his short-sleeved uniform from the night before, and the gesture exposed a half-moon of sweat that reached halfway to his waist. He was short, but short like a bulldog, and there was something about him that commanded respect. Tad had seen the sheriff loosen the teeth of a suspect almost twice his size.Never get in a fight with anyone under five foot six, he told himself. The crowd fell silent.

The sheriff dropped his arm. “My deputy, Tad Franklin, and myself will give a statement and answer questions. Let’s all behave like civilized people. What say?”

The crowd shuffled in place. Lights went on, mikes were boomed forward; there was the clicking of cassette recorders, the fluttering of camera shutters.

“Tad, let’s give these good folks some fresh coffee.”

Tad looked at Hazen. Hazen winked.

Tad grabbed the pot, peered in, gave it a quick shake. Then he reached for a stack of styrofoam cups, stepped out the door, and began doling out the coffee. There were some sips, a few furtive sniffs.

“Drink up!” Hazen cried good-naturedly. “Never let it be said we’re not hospitable folks here in Medicine Creek!”

There was a general shuffling, more sipping, a few covert glances into the cups. The coffee seemed to have subdued, if not broken, the spirit of the group. Though it was barely dawn, the heat was already oppressive. There was no place to put down the cups, no trash can to drop them in. And a sign outside the door to the sheriff’s office readNO LITTERING: $100 FINE .

Hazen adjusted his hat, then stepped out onto the sidewalk. He looked around, his shoulders squared to the crowd as the cameras rolled. He then addressed the group. He told in dry police language of finding the body; he described the clearing, the body, and the spitted birds. It was pretty vivid stuff, but the sheriff managed to handle it matter-of-factly, throwing in a folksy comment here and there, in a way that neutralized most of the gruesome aspects. It amazed Tad how easygoing, even charming, his boss could be when he wanted to.

In the space of two minutes he was finished. A flurry of shouted questions followed Hazen’s speech.

“One at a time; raise your hands,” the sheriff said. “It’s just like in school. Anyone who shouts goes last. You begin.” And he pointed to a reporter in shirtsleeves who was enormously, spectacularly fat.

“Are there any leads or suspects?”

“We’ve got some very interesting things we’re following up. I can’t say any more than that.”

Tad looked at him with surprise. What things? So far, they had nothing.

“You,” said Hazen, pointing to another.

“Was the murder victim local?”

“No. We’re working on identification, but she wasn’t a local. I know everyone around these parts, I can vouch for that myself.”

“Do you know how the woman was killed?”

“Hopefully, the medical examiner will tell us that. The body was sent up to Garden City. When we get the autopsy results, you’ll be the first to know.”

The early morning Greyhound, northbound from Amarillo, came rumbling up the main street, stopping in front of Maisie’s Diner with a chuff of brakes. Tad was surprised; the bus almost never stopped. Whoever came or went from Medicine Creek, Kansas, anymore? Maybe it was more reporters, too cheap to provide their own transportation.

“The lady, you, there. Your question, ma’am?”

A tough-looking redhead poked a shotgun mike at Hazen. “What law enforcement agencies are involved?”

“The state police have been a big help, but since the body was found in Medicine Creek township, it’s our case.”

“FBI?”

“The FBI doesn’t get involved in local murder cases and we don’t expect them to take an interest in this one. We’ve put some pretty heavy-duty police resources on the case, including the special crime lab and homicide squad up in Dodge City, who spent the whole night at the site. Don’t you all worry that just Tad and me are going to try to solve this on our own. We’re good at hollering, and we’re going to holler loud enough to get what we need to solve this case, and quick, too.” He smiled and winked.

There was a roar as the bus pulled away in a cloud of dust and diesel fumes. The sound temporarily drowned out the press conference. As the fumes cleared, they revealed a lone figure standing on the sidewalk, small leather valise sitting on the ground next to him. He was tall and thin, dressed in dead black, and in the early morning light he cast a shadow that stretched halfway across downtown Medicine Creek.