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coverage, and Storie's picture was in both the local papers.
    This looked like it might be another of those high-profile mysteries that, if she solved it, would make her a legitimate candidate for sheriff. If she ever ran against him, she'd have him beat all to hell on looks. Her accent would hurt her some, though.
    "Tell me, Sergeant. What do you think did it?" he asked.
    "I can honestly say I have no idea, sir." She folded her arms over the camera.
    "Any chance that somebody did it with a sharp weapon, without leaving footprints that we could see?"
    "The pattern of the wounds seems random at first glance. But what bugs me is the ritualistic nature of the injured areas."
    Areas? Littlefield wanted to remind Storie that those body parts were once near and dear to Boonie Houck. But he only nodded at her to continue.
    "Look at the major wounds. First, there's the eyes."
    "We haven't found them yet."
    "Exactly. That's an inconvenient spot for a ram-paging animal to reach. In any event, it's unlikely that a claw would take both eyes."
    "Unless they were shining , and somehow attracted the animal's attention. The moon was over half-full last night."
    "Okay. Let's go on to the hand. Seems like an ani-mal would have started gnawing at a softer spot."
    "Maybe it did."
    "That brings us to the fatal wound."
    "Now, that's not been determined yet." Littlefield felt the tingle of blood rushing to his cheeks.
    "I saw the rip in the front of his pants." She lifted the camera. "I took pictures, remember?"
    "Guess so." His tongue felt thick.
    "With the loss of that much blood, I'm amazed he survived as long as he did."
    "You said the wounds were ritualistic. What's that got to do with his . . . er . . ."
    "Penis, Sheriff. You can say it in the company of a woman these days."
    "Of course." His face grew warmer with embar-rassment. He looked across the mountains. He would love to be walking a stream right now, flicking a hand-tied fly across the silver currents, the smell of wet stone and rotted loam in his nostrils. Alone. Any-where but here with blood and the red church and Sheila Storie. "So what does it mean?"
    "It may mean nothing. Or it may mean we have a deviant personality on the loose." The flash of her eyes gave away her belief in the latter. Or maybe she was only hopeful.
    "Is it because we haven't found the . . . other part, either?"
    "I don't know yet."
    "Think we ought to call in the state boys?" Little-field knew Storie would bristle at turning the case over to the State Bureau of Investigation. She would want a shot first.
    "That's your decision, Sheriff."
    "I suppose we'll have to wait for the state medical examiner's report. Hoyle's sending him down to Chapel Hill."
    "Good."
    Littlefield tried to read her expression. But the sun was in her face, so her half-closed eyes didn't give away anything. He knew she thought Perry Hoyle had about as much forensic sophistication as a hog butcher. The whole department was probably a joke to her. Well, she was a flatlander, anyway. "Hoyle doesn't think the wounds were made by a weapon."
    "You asked for my opinion, sir."
    Littlefield looked up the hill at the church. Sud-denly he felt as if someone had reached an icy hand down his throat and squeezed his heart. His brother Samuel was on the roof of the church, waving and smiling. His dead brother Samuel.
    Littlefield blinked, then saw that the illusion was only a mossy patch on the shingles. He sighed. "I'm putting you in charge of the in-vestigation."
    Storie almost smiled. "I'll do my best, sir."
    Littlefield nodded and stepped over the strings that marked off grids at the scene. He knelt by the toppled monument. "What do you make of this?"
    "The boys' footprints lead over here. I'd guess van-dalism. Tipping tombstones is an old favorite. Maybe they were messing around when the subject heard them and tried to crawl out of the weeds."
    "Seems like they would have heard Boonie yell-ing." He stopped himself. Boonie wouldn't have called out,