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pressed.
    “Not a one. I personally don’t know what to make of it. The poor girl’s blood was drained, leaving her body blue as a dismal sky…or so I heard.”
    Jordon suppressed a laugh. Chuck wasn’t the sharpest tool in the shed. He could have been the killer, and this nitwit would have been none the wiser.
    “Did you happen to know the family?” Jordon asked.
    “No, can’t say I did. You’d have better luck with that inquiry over in Hixton.”
    “I’m sure you’re right .” Confident he’d learned all he could from Officer Chuck, Jordon was ready to head out. “Think you could you pen me some directions?”
    “Oh, you won’t have any problems. It’s not far, just several miles north and to the west of I-94.”
    “Do you know the exit number?”
    “105. Then turn right onto 95—it’s also called Interstate Road. From there, it’s less than a mile. You could also take County Road A, but the interstate is faster.”
    “I’m sure I’ll find it. Thank you for the info, Chuck. You’ve been more help than you could ever know.” Jordon’s voice held a hint of belittlement.
    “Well, that’s what we’re here for, to serve and assist,” the officer replied in a chipper manner, seeming not to notice the derision. “What about a message…for the sheriff?”
    “I’m with the U.S. Marshals Service. I just wanted to inform him that I’m here looking into the murder. I’d like to meet with him, but there’s no need to take anything down. I’ll stop back by later.” Jordon gave a friendly nod and left.
    W hat kind of a hillbilly hellhole have I wandered into this time?
    He stepped outside the building and made a beeline for his car, eager to get to Hixton. Visiting the murder site was his next plan of action. If Chuck was any indication of the rest of the force, the incompetent idiots running Jackson County just might have overlooked some vital clues.
    Arriving in Hixton fifteen minutes later, he stopped at a local convenience store where a clerk gave him directions to Old Denaud Road. Following the course given, he found the two-lane byway with little effort. Traveling a little farther through dense, wooded terrain, he spotted a dirt drive to his right framed by two tall poles supporting a sign saying: Jaffler Farm. Several Thoroughbred horses grazed in a large pasture nestled between the road and the farmhouse that sat a distance back. Continuing past the farm entrance, he located the taped-off crime scene a minute later, at the edge of the woods.
    Jordon pulled off the road and shifted the black Dodge Charger into park. His gator-skin boots had just hit the dirt when a white SUV pulled up behind him. By the dim view afforded him through the front windshield, he recognized the man behind the wheel from his picture in the paper—Sheriff Pierson.
    The sheriff alighted from his vehicle and Jordon heard him mumble, “Who the blazes is this beatnik?”
    An imposing figure, he stared at Jordon in an obvious attempt to intimidate while pulling a pack of Marlboros from his shirt pocket and tapping one out. Cupping his hands to his mouth, he lit the cigarette and let out a plume of smoke that curled upward and drifted away on the light breeze.
    “I prefer Camels myself.” Jordon spoke first, reaching for his own gold -colored pack of cigarettes. He lit one up and blew the smoke out of the left side of his mouth in a cocky manner, letting the sheriff know he could not, would not, be intimidated. “You must be Sheriff Pierson.”
    “I am. And who might you be?” Pierson asked, moving his way. “This is an official crime scene.”
    “I’m well aware of that.” Jordon bit his cigarette between his teeth to free his hands, searching his inner coat pocket for his badge. In the process, Pierson caught sight of the 9mm strapped to his shoulder and immediately took defensive action.
    “Put your hands up,” the sheriff ordered, his gun trained on Jordon. “Where I can see them!”
    “Whoa.” Jordon