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personality. Yep, Des had nailed it.
    Violet stood and brushed her hands together, but all she succeeded at was smearing mud around even more on the latex gloves. She grunted and snapped them off inside out in a practiced move, then stuffed them in her pockets.
    Tarq and Loretta joined our huddle.
    “You sure pick the spots.” Violet aimed her comment at me.
    I wanted to point out that I’d had nothing to do with any of the events of the day—well, since the near collision anyway, even though that episode was none of her business. But Tarq’s meaningful glare made me shut my mouth. Maybe Violet was just complaining about my choice to live in a remote, rural environment. Would it have been easier to process a homicide scene in the middle of a city? Probably.
    But the neighbors in an urban setting would have been far less concerned about our missing boys, wouldn’t have dropped everything to help search for them on a freezing February night. I’d take May County any day. At least Violet hadn’t complained about my neighbors and new friends tramping all over the crime scene before somebody realized exactly what it was.
    “I want you to look at these,” Violet said, her voice trailing over her shoulder as she walked toward a stretch of clear plastic which formed a non-contaminating backdrop for a series of items laid out in neat rows, evenly spaced.
    I squatted next to the plastic.
    “Don’t touch,” Violet barked, and I held my hands up where she could see them.
    Des, Tarq and Loretta gathered opposite me, also studying the display on the plastic sheet. They were silent in a strange way, as though they were holding their collective breath, as though the proffered items were dust and a whiff of misplaced breeze might cast them into oblivion.
    The exhibits weren’t body parts, at least not yet, and for that I was grateful. They appeared to be clothing items—mud-caked, crumpled, slimy, and greenish despite what their original colors might have been.
    “Most of his soft tissue is gone, even in this cold weather, so the body had been exposed to the air, and therefore insects, for a while. The lab will confirm, but I’m guessing six to eight weeks.” Violet was bent, hands on knees, talking over the top of my head. She had none of Trudy’s modesty even though she was reiterating much of what the older woman had already informally deduced. “But there’s enough tissue left inside his shoe to get an easy DNA sample.”
    I fought the urge to gag and pressed my fingers into the ground to keep from tipping over.
    “Recognize anything?” Violet asked.
    “Can they be laid out flat?” I asked.
    Violet pulled on a new set of disposable gloves and started spreading the garments out. One arm of the button-down dress shirt had been torn off, leaving a frayed edge just beyond the armscye. She hailed another agent and had him aim a penlight at the label. “Lorenzini. Never heard of it. Must be Italian,” she muttered.
    I was familiar with the brand. It was a $400 shirt.
    “Only have the left one so far.” Violet nudged a wingtip my direction.
    Knowing what was inside, there was no way I was going to poke around for a label on the shoe, but I could already tell that it was also expensive. A faintly sweet, cloying odor rose from the wet leather, and I tried not to think about the reason for that.
    The man who’d been wearing these clothes had not been traipsing about in the woods for the fresh air and exercise.
    “How about this? From section C-4.” Another agent dropped a little gold bauble on the plastic, and it bounced before settling into a hollow created by the rough ground underneath.
    My breath caught in my throat. I forced myself to swallow. “May I?” I held my hand out, palm up.
    The agent pressed a pair of clean gloves into my outstretched hand, and I pulled them on.
    It was a ring. Small for a man—a pinkie ring. No initials or engraving, but the round, flat face was crusted with a bed of tiny diamonds.