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pulled away. And as Sean drove the motor home north toward Memphis, she carried the majority of Winter’s heart with her.

11
    THE TUNICA COUNTY SHERIFF’S OFFICE WAS LOCATED within the jail facility, a building with all the architectural charm of a shoebox, just down the road from a decrepit cotton gin. Winter parked in the lot across from a pole flying the Mississippi State and United States flags, locked the rented Jeep wagon, and strode up the wide concrete walkway to the front doors, opening them for an elderly woman and a small boy wearing a hooded jacket and threadbare shoes. In the reception area, a line of chairs faced a reception nook where two clerks stood behind bulletproof glass. On the far wall was a row of framed black and white portraits of past sheriffs of Tunica County. Several of the early sheriffs looked like hard-faced lawmen from the Old West, with sweeping handlebar mustaches, strong jaws, and serious eyes sheltered by bushy brows. In the more recent photos, they looked less like gunslingers and more like businessmen who had taken the job for a change in routine. Winter wondered if the last photo was of the sheriff who had been arrested by the Feds for corruption.
    Speaking through a slot in the window, Winter asked the clerk to let the sheriff know he was there.
    After a couple of minutes, an attractive black woman dressed in a gray business suit came out into the reception area smiling at Winter.
    “Mr. Massey,” she said, holding out her hand, which he shook. “I’m Bettye Barry, the sheriff’s assistant.”
    “Nice to meet you.”
    “Sheriff Barnett is expecting you. I’ll take you back.”
    Winter crossed through the metal-detector gate and set off the alarm, which the receptionist ignored. They went down a short hall and took a right at the first intersection, pausing at a steel door with a built-in glass panel. Bettye used her card to open the lock and showed him through, then opened the door to the sheriff’s office spaces. The reception area was small, but the sheriff’s office wasn’t.
    Inside, Winter spotted Brad Barnett at his desk talking on the phone. As Winter entered, Brad hung up.
    “That was the MBI,” Brad said.
    “They coming in?” Winter asked.
    “They aren’t overly enthusiastic about it. Said it looked like a county matter—a hunting accident I could solve. They’re going to review the evidence at the state lab, the crime-scene pictures, and the autopsy report when it comes back from the ME’s office in Jackson. They don’t see a likelihood of solving this if it isn’t an accident, a jilted boyfriend, or nobody confesses or strikes again. If this is a hate crime they’ll get involved, but it’s obvious they don’t want to jump in on a dead-ender. I think it’s more about a dead black girl from a poor family. They assume all county sheriffs here are crooked based on our department’s recent history. This guy you think committed the murder, who’s he on the run from? The FBI?”
    “He’s not officially wanted by anyone in this country. If you’ll get the toothpick ready to ship, I can check it against a sample of his DNA I have.”
    “That takes months.”
    “Get it packed for shipping. I have a friend in the FBI who told me about a technique for getting DNA run in a matter of hours. I’ll call her.”
    “I have someone checking the crime database to see if any toothpicks have shown up in any other killings anywhere. What else can you tell me?”
    “We’ll see if I need to tell you more. Right now I can’t.”
    “Why not? Is it a government secret?”
    “Brad, you don’t want to know. If I think you should, I’ll tell you.”
    “I guess I’ll have to take your word on it. For the time being, anyway. But I don’t like it.”
    Winter shrugged. “I sent my family home.”
    “So, you’ll help me solve this case?”
    Winter nodded. “I’ll do everything I can.”
    “You’ll need temporary official standing. Just so happens I have an