police line, then were put into place again.
Lem parked at the end of the street, past the crime scene. He left Cliff Soames
to brief the other agents, and he headed toward the unfinished house that
appeared to be the focus of attention.
The patrol cars’ radios filled the hot night air with codes and jargon—and with
a hiss-pop-crackle of static, as if the whole world were being fried on a cosmic
griddle.
Portable kliegs stood on tripods, flooding the front of the house with light to
facilitate the investigation. Lem felt as if he were on a giant stage set. Moths
swooped and fluttered around the kliegs. Their amplified shadows darted across
the dusty ground.
Casting his own exaggerated shadow, he crossed the dirt yard to the house.
Inside, he found more kliegs. Dazzlingly bright light bounced off white walls.
Looking pale and sweaty in that harsh glare were a couple of young deputies, men
from the coroner’s office, and the usual intense types from the Scientific
Investigation Division.
A photographer’s strobe flashed once, twice, from farther back in the house. The
hallway looked crowded, so Lem went around to the back by way of the living
room, dining room, and kitchen.
Walt Gaines was standing in the breakfast area, in the dimness behind the last
of the hooded kliegs. But even in those shadows, his anger and grief were
visible. He had evidently been at home when he had gotten word about the murder
of a deputy, for he was wearing tattered running shoes, wrinkled tan chinos, a
brown- and red-checkered short-sleeve shirt. In spite of his great size, bull
neck, muscular arms, and big hands, Walt’s clothes and slump-shouldered posture
gave him the look of a forlorn little boy.
From the breakfast area, Lem could not see past the lab men and into the laundry
room, where the body still lay. He said, “I’m sorry, Walt. I’m so sorry.”
“Name was Teel Porter. His dad Red Porter and I been friends twenty-five years.
Red just retired from the department last year. How am I going to tell him?
Jesus. I’ve got to do it myself, us being so close. Can’t pass the buck this
time.”
Lem knew that Walt never passed the buck when one of his men was killed in the
line of duty. He always personally visited the family, broke the bad news, and
sat with them through the initial shock.
“Almost lost two men,” Walt said. “Other one’s badly shaken.”
“How was Teel . . . ?“
“Gutted like Dalberg. Decapitated.”
The Outsider, Lem thought. No doubt about it now.
Moths had gotten inside and were bashing against the lens of the klieg light
behind which Lem and Walt stood.
His voice thickening with anger, Walt said, “Haven’t found . . . his head. How
do I tell his dad that Teel’s head is missing?”
Lem had no answer.
Walt looked hard at him. “You can’t push me all the way out of it now. Not now
that one of my men is dead.”
“Walt, my agency works in purposeful obscurity. Hell, even the number of agents
on the payroll is classified information. But your department is subject to full
press attention. And in order to know how to proceed in this case, your people
would have to be told exactly what they’re looking for. That would mean
revealing national defense secrets to a large group of deputies—”
“Your men all know what’s up,” Walt countered.
“Yes, but my men have signed secrecy oaths, undergone extensive security checks,
and are trained to keep their mouths shut.”
“My men can keep a secret, too.”
“I’m sure they can,” Lem said carefully. “i’m sure they don’t talk outside the
shop about ordinary cases. But this isn’t ordinary. No, this has to remain in
our hands.”
Walt said, “My men can sign secrecy oaths.”
“We’d have to background-check everyone in your department, not just deputies
but file clerks. It’d take weeks, months.”
Looking across the kitchen at the open door to the dining room, Walt noticed
Cliff Soames and another NSA agent talking with two deputies in the next room.
“You started taking over the minute you got here, didn’t you? Before you even