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there and over there. Then stretch this tape around ‘em.”
    Beanie smiled gratefully and bounded off toward the woods.
    “Take a look, Mr. Wilkins. What do you make of it?”
    Mr. Wilkins slowly approached the body for the first time, his handkerchief still clutched tightly over his face. He turned his head away, sucked in a deep breath, then took a few quick steps toward the body. He poked and prodded and probed until his face began to grow red, then took several quick steps away to explode and pant and then once again fill his lungs with air. Wayne began to snicker, but the sheriff shot a burning look his way, and Wayne thought better of it and struck a more solemn pose. Mr. Wilkins repeated this process several times, until it became obvious that he was in danger of fainting dead away. Finally, still facing away from the body, he spoke.
    “Suicide. Plain and simple.”
    “What makes you so sure?”
    “Single gunshot wound to the side of the head—two wounds and you might have a murder. Entry wound is on the right—he was right-handed, wasn’t he? Exit wound on the left. No chance of ever finding the slug out here, but the angle of entry and exit look about right.” He spoke with more and more authority as he continued. “Classic suicide scenario. Most suicides are with handguns, you know, and almost always to the head. Never seen one otherwise.” In point of fact he had never seen another suicide at all, and everyone knew it—but they all held their tongues. “Theweapon is still present, no signs of struggle or conflict, no indication that the body was moved or disturbed in any way. Yessir, a classic suicide.”
    The sheriff put his hand on Mr. Wilkins’s shoulder and turned him aside. They walked several steps away, much to Mr. Wilkins’s relief, but they were still easily within earshot of the others.
    “I hate to admit it, Will, but I think you’re right,” the sheriff said. “You know Jimmy McAllister and I go way back. We grew up together here in Rayford. We were both at Fort Bragg, and we served together in the Gulf. But the fact is”—he glanced over to be sure that no one overheard—“things didn’t go so well for Jim after Desert Storm. A lot of chronic fatigue, long bouts of depression. He even made a few trips up to Walter Reed to be treated for Gulf War Syndrome. Nothin’ helped for long. He started stickin’ to himself more and more, went on hunting trips for weeks at a time. Some of us were beginning to wonder how long it would be before something like this happened.”
    “That settles it, then,” Mr. Wilkins said. “A definite suicide. I’ll notify the medical examiner’s office in Chapel Hill that no autopsy is necessary.”
    “You’re the expert. What else do you need to do here?”
    “In most cases,” he said, “we draw a blood sample for a standard toxicology screening. Drugs and alcohol, that sort of thing. But I doubt we could get a sample at this stage. So, I sign the death certificate, and then I call Schroeder’s to pick up the body and hold it until we can notify the next of kin. Didn’t he have a sister?”
    “Amy. I’ll make sure she knows.”
    Mr. Wilkins made a final inquiry of the hunters. “Any of you boys know a reason I shouldn’t call this one a suicide?”
    Each man solemnly shook his head.
    “Then it’s uncontested.” He paused to look at his wristwatch. “I’m recording the legal time of death as 8:04 a.m. on June 14, 1999. And I’m getting out of this kill-dog humidity just as fast as I can.” And wringing out his handkerchief as he went, the Holcum County coroner lumbered back toward the opening in the woods.
    Sheriff St. Clair pulled out a cell phone and flipped it open.
    “You callin’ Amy?” Ronny asked.
    “I got one other call to make first.” The sheriff paused, waiting for an answer at the other end.
    “Good morning, Central Carolina Bank.”
    “I want to talk to Kathryn Guilford,” the sheriff said. “Just tell her