Shadows Reel (Joe Pickett #22)(5)

“Maybe.” But the theory didn’t jibe with what Joe could see.

“Was he out here hunting?” Tibbs asked as he groaned his way to full height.

Joe looked around for a hunting rifle or any other evidence to suggest why the victim was located there. The man appeared to be wearing slippers or light shoes, not hunting boots. But it was difficult to tell exactly what his footwear consisted of because they were burned and had melted into the skin of his feet.

The prop-ity line was marked by a taut four-strand barbed-wire fence mounted to T-posts just behind the brush where the body was curled up. Trumley, Joe knew, was a stickler for a good tight fence. On the other side was an ancient overgrown two-track road. He could see that the grass in the ruts was pressed down.

Joe said, “Look at that top strand of wire.”

Tibbs did so and saw bits of burned clothing and skin hanging from the barbs.

Joe said, “I’m thinking he either climbed the fence and died here or he got tossed over it from the other side.”

Tibbs grunted, apparently agreeing with the theory. “Don’t touch anything,” he said.

“You don’t need to tell me that. There was a vehicle on that road,” Joe said. “The tire tracks look fresh.”

“I see that,” Tibbs said. “I’ll get Norwood to climb the fence and take a good look at that road. We might be able to find a tread pattern.

“But who would do such a thing?” he asked. “And why?”

“Maybe they thought the predators would clean it up before anyone found the body,” Joe said. “Like you said, it wouldn’t take very long. It’s lucky for us that Lorne just happened to come this way this morning. Otherwise, that body could have been there for the entire winter before anyone noticed it, if they ever did.”

“Which suggests some planning,” Tibbs said.

He shook his head and moaned. “This is quite a bit worse than I thought it would be.”

“Yup.”

“Do you think we should question the rancher?”

“Can’t hurt,” Joe said. “But I’d be surprised he has anything to do with this. If Lorne wanted to hide a body on his own ranch, I’d guess he would find a better place to put it. And he wouldn’t call it in.”

Tibbs indicated his agreement, but he had a very sour look on his face. Although Joe didn’t know him well yet, he surmised that Sheriff Tibbs would much rather make quips during town council meetings and ride in his SUV during the Fourth of July parade than investigate another murder. Not to mention his not-very-secret affair with Ruthanne Hubbard, the sexy and twice-divorced dispatcher.

Joe told Tibbs he would take the Ranger back to the ranch house and turn it over to his deputies so they could join him at the crime scene. He didn’t know how long it would take Norwood and the other deputy to arrive with the ATVs.

“What, and just leave me here?” Tibbs asked with alarm.

“Somebody needs to stay and keep the predators away,” Joe said. “Besides, you made it real clear this is sheriff’s department business. I don’t want to get in your way.”

Tibbs narrowed his eyes. “Fine. Just call me when you think of the victim’s name, even though by then we’ll probably know anyway.”

Joe nodded and climbed into the Ranger and started it up.

“Tell my guys to hurry,” Tibbs said as he dug into his evidence bag for a thick roll of crime scene tape to mark the perimeter of the scene.

“Will do,” Joe said.

“This place was described to me as sleepy by your county commissioners,” Tibbs said, gesturing around him with the roll of tape to include the entire county.

“Bait and switch,” Joe responded.

Then he did a three-point turn and rocketed back through the swamp toward the ranch house. The farther he got from the burned body, the less likely he’d get sick again. But he had no real doubt that the sight and smell of the burned man would stay with him for a long time.



* * *



—

Joe was halfway back to the ranch headquarters when Tibbs called.

“Do you know a guy named Bert Kizer?” Tibbs asked.

Then it hit Joe, where he’d seen the victim before. It had been on the Twelve Sleep River. The dead man was rowing a drift boat at the time while two visiting fly fishermen casted streamers toward the banks.

“He’s wearing a metal dog tag on a chain around his neck,” Tibbs said. “One of those cheap ones. It says: ‘Bert Kizer, A-positive.’ I guess that means his blood type.”

Joe said, “He’s a local fishing guide. He’s been around this valley for a long time—longer than me. He used to own an outfitting company, but it went belly-up, so now he hires on with other outfits when they need an extra hand. He’s a freelance rent-a-guide. I’m pretty sure he’s divorced and lives alone in a shack not all that far from here.”

“Do you know much more about him than that?” Tibbs asked.

“Like what?”

“Does he have enemies who could do this to him? Is he involved in something that might get him killed?”

“I really don’t know much about him,” Joe said. “I’ve seen him on the river a few times when I was fishing. He just nodded and kept rowing. I wouldn’t say he was a gregarious guy. Which is unusual, because most guides are real talkers.”