least one dump site . . . You know Iâm not a profiler?â
Dave looked up. âI know.â
âSo why are you asking me?â
âTwo reasons.â He held up his index finger. âNumber one, you have good insight. Number two, we donât have a profiler. Weâre lucky to have Dre.â
âIs that the guy with all the tattoos?â
âYeah. Andre Arceneaux. A lateral transfer from Spokane, but originally from West Monroe, Louisiana. Donât let his tattoos and piercings throw you. He was an undercover agent for Ouachita Parish.â
Gwen opened her mouth, but Dave was on a roll.
âWeâre lucky he took a couple of forensic classes last year. Thatâs all people think about anymore. They watch TV, all those crime shows, and they think itâs really like that. Case solved in an hour minus commercials, using the latest scientific gadgets. A CSI team waiting for our call, trained and ready. When my dad was sheriff, no one questioned him about forensic science.â
âBut your dadââ
âNot three days ago, Mrs. Post called. Stray dogs killed a bunch of chickens. She wanted me to do DNA tests on the blood.â Dave violently swatted a deerfly buzzing near his head. âDNA. Chicken blood. This is Copper Creek, Montana!â
Gwen cocked her head and narrowed one eye. âSo did you do it?â
âDo what?â
âThe DNA on the blood?â
He folded his arms. âYou. Are. So . . . Just finish giving me your thoughts about this case.â
Gwen slowly turned in a circle. Dave followed her movements and tried to view the scene through her eyes. Patrol cars lined the field next to the house. One officer unrolled cadmium-yellow tape, boldly announcing Police LineâDo Not Cross in block print, from tree to tree. Methodically, he created a path to the grave before circling the house. The pine-covered mountains crowded in on three sides. The driveway dropped to the county road to their left. A faint dirt track, or logging skid trail, continued past the house toward the mountains. Rusty barbed wire, looped between gray posts, enclosed a sloping upper field. Most of the fence lay snarled in the tall grasses. The crackle of radios and the rushing stream provided the only sounds.
âIf you donât think about why weâre here, itâs actually a pretty spot,â Gwen said, still looking around. âI painted it once, put it into an exhibit with a couple of other old homesteads.â
âI remember the show. You sold every piece.â
âDonât be too impressed. There were only five paintings.â She shrugged. âAnyway, back to here. The house was well chosen. This guy knows the area. This is a difficult location to find, especially the road leading in here. Itâs overgrown and has a weird turn as you drive up.â
âYeah. Some of the deputies were late getting here. They couldnât find the entrance.â
âOkay. So, the killer could have a connection with a government agency like Fish, Wildlife, and Parksâor Forest Service. Possibly even law enforcement. Someone who might patrol the roads and would blend in. Thatâs probably a key, someone not out of place where locals inspect the drivers of every truck or car. That would also include hunters.â
Dave looked up quickly.
âAnimal hunter. Elk, deer, bear,â Gwen amended. âA hunter might stumble onto this location.â
âPossible, but I think he knows the locale pretty well. An outside hunter would need maps, and this place isnât on any hunting maps. Itâs private land and itâs posted.â
Gwen took a swift intake of breath.
âWhat?â he asked.
âSomething . . . a thought.â She waved her hand in front of her face as if swatting a fly. âGone before I could nail it down.â
Dave stared at the overgrown road. â Somebody knew about this place. Maybe we should