Brass in Pocket by Jeff Mariotte Read Free Book Online Page B

cats and hamsters and sheep, either.”
    â€œThis was no hunter,” Greg agreed. “Get some photos, Riley. Officer, can I get to that sheep without walking on the other bones?”
    The depression was a little more than eight feet across, and almost three deep. Officer Villanueva led him around to the far side while Riley circled the pit snapping pictures, her flash strobing the night.There, most of its bulk hidden from the front by the pile of bones, white against white, was the corpse of a recently killed sheep, its wool painted in spots with dried blood that resembled rust stains. While he looked it over, Riley put the camera away and beamed her light down into the pit.
    â€œGreg?” Riley had sunk to her knees by the edge of the depression. She had gloved up too, and she held a bone in the air, lighting it with her flashlight. “I’ve got tool marks here. They look like knife marks to me. Cuts are deep enough to scrape bone.”
    â€œGreat,” Greg said. “Does this mean we’ve got a sicko who likes to kill animals? Because that
is
a crime.”
    He went toward the sheep, his gut churning unpleasantly with every step. He didn’t expect to like what he found.
    The sheep had been dead for a week or so, Greg speculated, but no more than that. Its flesh was loose and just starting to cave in under the coils of wool. Further investigation could reveal precisely how long it had been dead—that was the sort of thing Grissom was good at; he could look at the insects crawling around on and inside it and pinpoint a time of death within hours, under most circumstances. Greg had yet to amass the experience to do that.
    â€œI have a dog skull here with a bullet hole in it,” Riley announced. “Execution-style, back of the head.”
    Greg didn’t answer. The sheep appeared to be the biggest animal in the pit by a wide margin. The smell of its decomposing flesh and filthy, bloodywool was cloying, almost gagging him, and he found himself breathing through his mouth. The wool twitched with activity. Maggots, probably. He tried not to think about those as he reached for it. The animal was on its side, legs toward him, head curled in toward its chest, where most of the blood was gathered.
    He had a bad feeling about that.
    â€œIt’s a ewe,” he said.
    â€œIt’s a you?” Riley echoed. “What do you mean, it’s a me?”
    â€œE-w-e. A female… never mind.” Why was he such easy prey for her? Because he didn’t expect such a pretty woman to be such a smart-ass? Not like he hadn’t known plenty of pretty smart-asses in his life. Humor was how Riley dealt with tense situations, though, and if he had to be the target this time, so be it. But he couldn’t allow it to distract him.
Focus, Greg. Look at the throat
. He took a handful of wool and tilted the head back. It moved easily.
Too easy
.
    When he exposed the neck, he knew why.
    An opening gaped there, like a black-rimmed smile, the flesh curling away from the gap.
    Greg made a choking noise and released it.
    Someone had slit the ewe’s throat.
    That didn’t happen in nature. Not that way. Not that clean a cut.
    A knife had made that slice.
    Bullets, knives, cut marks. Animals of varying sizes and descriptions, all killed and then left here.
    What kind of person would do something like this?
    From the look on Riley’s face, her jaw tight and trembling, her lips almost vanished in a thin white line, her eyes gleaming in the reflected glow of her flashlight, he knew he wouldn’t want to be that person if she found him.
    But he couldn’t help hoping that she did find him.

7
    N ICK S TOKES HAD OBTAINED a warrant to search Deke Freeson’s office. There wasn’t, as it turned out, much of anyone to object to such a search. Freeson had once been married and had a son, but he and his wife had been divorced for years, and she and their son had both died during