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“Hardcore bow hunters usually buy the individual parts and make their own. But, like I said before, I’ve never known Chet to use a bow.”
    “So tell me, just what sort of animals did Chet hunt for around here?”
    “There’s deer all over the mountains, but I’m assuming he came to Ev’s land looking for black bears.”
    “Why would they be here?” Ash asked.
    “There’s an old sand quarry down that road.” The game warden pointed toward a dirt lane that led from the farmyard. “It’s been abandoned since the nineteen sixties, and the bears hibernate there.”
    I said, “And it sounds as if Chet came here repeatedly, which raises an interesting question: Just how many dead bears does a guy need?”
    “You aren’t going to believe this, but there’s a huge market for bear gallbladders.” The disgust was palpable in Randy’s voice. “The organs are used to make snake-oil cures for male impotence. I can’t prove that Chet is the one doing it, but . . .”
    “You’ve found dead bears that have been gutted,” I guessed sourly. It was a foolishly sentimental notion, but I’ve loved bears ever since Ash began making teddy bears. Yeah, I know they’re wild animals, that Gentle Ben was just a TV show, and that hunting is supposed to be a sport. But the idea of killing one of those magnificent creatures for no other purpose than to harvest an organ was just obscene.
    “I’ve found a few. The rangers up in the national park have found others,” said Randy.
    “Oh, that’s just vile,” said Ash as Tina nodded in agreement.
    “It’s easy to blame Chet, but he wouldn’t be out here if there weren’t customers,” said Randy.
    “That’s the same excuse dope dealers use,” I sighed, then motioned toward the line of pine trees. “I don’t know a thing about archery. How difficult a shot would it have been to hit Everett from there?”
    “That’s almost point-blank range for an experienced bow hunter,” Randy replied. “And here’s something else to consider: It’s dark, so you can’t see it from here, but a hill begins just beyond those trees . . . the same hill where I saw Chet jump into his truck.”
    Tina peered at the trees. “You think that’s where Mr. Lincoln was hiding?”
    “It looks as if Rawlins was facing in that direction when the arrow hit, but that doesn’t necessarily mean anything. For all we know, he might have managed a couple of steps before he fell,” I said.
    “But if Mr. Lincoln was lying in wait there, that shows premeditation—” began Tina.
    “Which would turn a ‘hunting accident’ into first-degree murder,” Ash finished. Hanging her head a little, she continued in a chastened voice, “I’m beginning to think maybe I was wrong about the Saab being involved.”
    I put my hand on her shoulder. “Honey, it’s way too early to rule anything out, especially since we have no proof that Chet has any skill with a bow and arrow.”
    Tina’s portable radio squawked, and she pulled it from her belt to listen to the message. She acknowledged the call and then turned to us. “The animal control guy is here. You want to get started with the crime scene photographs while Randy and I help corral Longstreet?”
    “Sounds good,” I said.
    “Be careful,” Ash added.
    Ash opened a black nylon case and handed me the department’s new Nikon digital camera. I’d have been just as happy working with old-fashioned film, but I could see the advantages of going digital. The new camera allowed you to review each photo as you took it, and best of all, the pictures would be ready just as soon as we could get to the computer at the sheriff’s office. Back when I started in cop work, you might wait the better part of a day before the photo lab developed your crime scene pictures.
    Longstreet shifted his barking into overdrive as Tina, Randy, and the animal control officer went into the house. Meanwhile, I leaned my cane against the patrol car and began snapping orientation