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next to the body. He cradled Potter’s head in latex-gloved hands and tipped it left and then right. He used his fingers to pry at one of the lacerations that showed through the camouflage. Gallagher couldn’t watch any longer. He stared up at the sky and imagined himself out on the Taylor Fork River south of Bozeman, casting to cutthroats on a hot July Montana day.
    ‘Can’t say for sure until I can get him up on a table under the lights,’ Allen said at last. ‘But if I had to make a guess, I’d say some kind of crudely made machete or hatchet. See those little elliptical irregularities in the wound? The blade was hand-filed.’
    Allen studied the wounds again, then moved his attention lower. ‘Given the lack of bloating, I’d say he’s been in the water no more than eight hours. And, much as I hate to say it, it appears he was raped as well as killed. He lead some kind of secret life?’
    ‘You mean like—?’ Deputy Gavrilis began.
    ‘Hank Potter?’ Chief Kerris cried. ‘No way. The guy played halfback at UVM.’
    Allen shrugged. ‘Whatever. I’ll know more once I get him on the table. Autopsy Monday morning. Six-thirty a.m. sharp.’
    There were groans all around. Allen was known for calling autopsies at the crack of dawn.
    ‘Who found the body?’ Bowman asked.
    Nightingale pointed toward Gallagher who had returned to the porch. He waved weakly and all of them came over save the deputy, who heard static on the radio and ran to the Suburban. Gallagher stood up and Kerris gave him a sort of weight-room look that he ignored. They asked several preliminary questions—where Gallagher was from, what he did for a living, why he’d rented the cabin. Gallagher stupidly chanted the highlights of his résumé like an Alzheimer’s patient trying to maintain his last handhold on identity—that he had a PhD in anthropology from Cornell, where he had specialized in comparative mythology. He had spent a year teaching undergraduates at Harvard before bugging out of academia to join The Boston Globe as a cultural reporter, aspiring to follow in the footsteps of Tom Wolfe. Three years later Gallagher won the Pulitzer Prize for a series of stories that looked at the lives of children caught in the battle zones of religious wars. For the past seven years he had written and produced documentaries for National Geographic, PBS and the Discovery Channel. Most of his work focused on the interplay of culture and creed.
    ‘Well, la-di-da,’ Kerris said when Gallagher had finished. He had a hooded way of looking at you that made you feel as if you could be humiliated in his presence. ‘What are you doing here? There’s no strange religion in Lawton.’
    ‘Fishing,’ Gallagher said sharply. ‘But I’m also doing research on Father D’Angelo—the one who died doing miracles here eighty years ago.’
    ‘What about him?’ the chief asked, his brows becoming even more hooded.
    ‘D’Angelo’s up for sainthood,’ Gallagher replied. ‘I’m thinking about doing a film on the process of Catholic canonization.’
    At that moment, Kerris’s deputy shouted over from the Suburban. ‘Chief, the office just got a call from Paula Potter. She’s reported Hank missing. She thinks he’s broken a leg out turkey hunting.’
    Bowman clicked her ruby-red fingernails. She turned to Nightingale. ‘Can you handle it?’
    ‘I’ll go right up there,’ Nightingale said, making furtive glances at the rest of them.
    ‘That’s not what I asked.’
    Nightingale’s shoulders rose. ‘I can handle it, Brigid.’
    Bowman did that clicking thing with her fingernails again. ‘You’ll call me if you find anything up there?’
    Nightingale gritted her teeth. ‘I will.’
    Kerris tongued his lollipop from one cheek to the other, obviously enjoying her discomfort. He said, ‘I’ll have my men begin a search of the riverbank this side of town. Maybe we can find the rest of his clothes.’
    ‘I’m done?’ Gallagher asked.
    Nightingale