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steer and at the body, and he turned to face the medical examiner. “Heart attack, well, maybe. All the same, I think we’d better run some tests.”
    “Again?”
    But Slaughter only frowned at him. Then hearing someone coming through the hallway door, Slaughter turned and saw the doctor. He went over to him. “How is Mrs. Markle?”
    The doctor shook his head.
    “Can I speak to her?”
    “She won’t understand.”
    “How soon till she does?”
    “Maybe after supper. She’ll be at the hospital. I’ll check on her and let you know.”
    “Thanks.” Slaughter stared at the floor. “It’s too bad. A woman that age. Now she’s all alone.” He sighed, then walked toward the double doors.
    The medical examiner was waiting for him. “What about the body? Can I move it?”
    “I’ll have pictures taken. Then it’s yours.” Again he tried to distract himself. “Is everything all right for tomorrow?”
    “As near as I can tell.”
    “Okay. I’ll see you then.”
    Tomorrow was the weekend, and they always got together out at Slaughter’s. That was Slaughter’s way of keeping everybody friendly. Everyone he worked with had an open invitation to the ranch-although “ranch” wasn’t quite the word, just five acres with a house and barn. But he had two horses, and the house was very nice, and he liked to have the people whom he worked with out, the only friends he had. He’d been married once. His wife, though, had divorced him, which was common with policemen who were married to their work. She had kept the children, one boy and a girl, and now he hardly ever heard from them except when he insisted that they come out for a visit. That had been a month ago, and since then he’d been distant. It was obvious that he was looking forward to have people with him for tomorrow.
    Now he walked to the cruiser, glanced around, opened the driver’s door and slid inside. He sat there for a moment, then reached to grab the microphone from the two-way radio on the dash.
    He pressed the button. “Marge, it’s Slaughter. Any news?” He released the button.
    Hiss of static. “Nothing, Chief. What about Doc Markle at the vet’s?”
    Slaughter didn’t answer.
    “Chief?”
    He swallowed. “It’s too late. He’s dead.”
    “Oh.” Hiss of static. “Lord, I’m sorry.”
    “Yeah, well… . Guess his time just came.” The words were like stones in his throat. “Damn it,” he murmured.
    “Say that again, Chief. I didn’t understand you.”
    “Nothing. I’ll be back to the office shortly.” Slaughter returned the microphone to the radio, grabbed the key and twisted it, starting the car.
    He had tried his best to be objective in there. Really it was hard. The doctor and the medical examiner both knew the way he felt. So did Marge. That was what she’d meant when she had said that she was sorry. Not for Markle, but for him.
    Markle was the man he’d known out here the longest. It was Markle who had come out showing him about the horses he had tried to raise, explaining his mistakes. Markle had told him that a vet should come out twice a year at least, checking, giving shots and worming. Just when Slaughter got so he had one thing right, though, he would screw up on another, and soon Markle had to come out nearly every day. In the end, the old man had asked him why he wanted in this business in the first place, and then Slaughter had told him of his ideal image, living in the country, raising horses, selling them, sitting on the porch and watching all the animals run free. Markle shook his head. The word he’d used was “business,” and he meant it. If you wanted horses just to ride and look at, that was one thing. Raising them and selling them, that was something else. People out here bred their own. Anyway, you needed decent stock. Good brood mares, a winning stallion. It took years to build a proper herd. Not to mention all the care and work. Days and nights of making sure that they were healthy, taking pains