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and Joe had set down in a field which, in early fall, served as a regional fairgrounds. A deputy shuttled them from there to the site of Mickey Bolden’s murder.
    Portable lights had been brought in. The ugly tavern was lit up brighter than the Las Vegas strip. The men in uniform who were milling about cast eerie shadows that stretched into the surrounding forest before being absorbed by it.
    “Worse,” Joe said in response to Hick’s summation of the situation. The two of them ducked beneath the yellow band that was intended to keep people off the parking lot but had been largely ignored. However, most of the trespassers were giving wide berth to the Lexus. He and Hick made a beeline for it.
    An efficient young agent named Holstrom, one of the crime scene investigators from their New Orleans office, was consulting with a man whose natty seersucker suit and elfin countenance didn’t fit here in deep bayou country, where no one had the courage to identify all the hunks of meat in the gumbo, and the mere notion of gun control laws was knee-slapping hilarious.
    Joe and Hick exchanged subdued greetings with their colleague who introduced the small man he’d been talking to as Dr. Something-or-Other, the parish medical examiner. All were wearing gloves, so they didn’t shake hands, which was just as well because they would have had to reach across the gulf of chunky, congealing blood between them.
    Going straight to business, the ME said, “He’s already at the morgue, but when he was identified they called me back out here to talk to y’all. I’ve got pictures of what he looked like when I arrived.”
    He tapped his iPad screen and held it up so they could see. He flipped through several photos of Mickey Bolden’s sizable corpse taken from various angles and distances. None were pretty. Joe almost felt sorry for the lawless bastard.
    Hick, a devout Catholic, breathed a prayer and crossed himself.
    Joe, who was also Catholic but less devout, said, “No need to ask cause of death.”
    “He never felt it,” the ME said with more dispassion than Joe would have expected from a man with such a benevolent face.
    Joe pointed to one of the photos on the iPad, specifically to the pistol lying within inches of Mickey’s outstretched hand. “Who retrieved his weapon?”
    “First responders determined that it hadn’t been recently fired,” Holstrom said, “but they left it for the homicide detective from the SO to collect.”
    “Good.” Joe also noticed in the photographs that Mickey’s hands were gloved. He asked about those.
    “He wore them to the morgue,” the ME said. “I bagged them. A deputy picked them up, so the sheriff’s office has them, too. Chain of possession has been recorded.”
    “Thanks. We’ll want the autopsy report as soon as—”
    “I know, I know. You fellas never say, ‘No rush, Doc. Whenever you can get to it will be just fine.’”
    He might look like a leprechaun, but he had the disposition of a rattlesnake. Joe decided he didn’t like him. Surveying the immediate area, he noticed a pair of markers that had been left in the gravel. “What was there?”
    “Ms. Bennett’s purse and key fob,” Holstrom replied. “The detective retrieved them.”
    Joe looked wider afield, searching for heel skid marks that would indicate that a scuffle had taken place or that someone—Jordie Bennett—had been dragged away. But there was nothing like that. “No signs of a struggle?”
    “What you see is what we’ve got. We’re searching,” Holstrom added. He pointed out a team member who was several yards away, crouched down studying the loose surface of the parking lot. “But the manager, who also tends bar, estimated that when this went down there were fifteen to twenty vehicles in the lot.”
    Hick, who noted that only five remained, said, “Must’ve been quite an exodus.”
    Holstrom nodded. “We’ve got dozens of crisscrossed tire tracks, only a few shoe imprints.” He raised his