Free Even Steven by John Gilstrap

and go, and they don’t always use the trails. I assume your agents are controlling the scene up on the mountain, but if you’re asking if we’ve shut the gates, the answer is no. And if you’re about to ask me to do that, the answer again is no.”
    Why did he have the feeling that they’d gotten off on the wrong foot? He smiled as best he could. “Look, Ms. Rodgers, I don’t mean to offend, okay? I’m just a little disappointed that the whole world might have traipsed through this crime scene before I’ve even had a chance to see it.”
    “Ditto about the offense,” Sarah countered. “Please understand that my people are trained in all aspects of running a national park, but homicide investigations are a bit out of our league. If we’ve done something to screw up your case, then I assure you it was done accidentally, and with the best of intentions.”
    Fair enough, Russell thought. “So, where am I?”
    Sarah retrieved a weather-beaten, plastic-laminated map from the back pocket of her green trousers and unfolded it. It had been a long time since Russell had had to translate contour lines into meaningful data, but as she traced the map with her finger, it came back to him pretty quickly.
    “Here’s the spot where we found the body,” she said, pointing to a place on the map next to a meandering blue mark that could only be a river. “That’s about a mile up that trail”—she pointed to a worn patch of foliage to his left—“which is right here on the map. We call it Powhite Trail. Currently, you’re standing right here, on Fire Road Seven. Technically, people aren’t supposed to drive up here, but many do, just to get a head start on the Powhite.”
    “You don’t ticket them?”
    Sarah shrugged. “Not so long as they stay off to the side and don’t block fire equipment access. Frankly, we don’t get but maybe five or six parties a month that come up this way. It’s not an easy hike.”
    Russell pictured what she had told him and arched his eyebrows high, suddenly struck with an inspiration. “When people drive in, do they come from the top of the mountain or the bottom?”
    She thought about that for a second. “Both, I guess, but the vast majority probably come from below.”
    Russell nodded as he let an idea percolate. “Okay, Ms. Rodgers—”
    “Call me Sarah, please.”
    “Okay, Sarah.” He recognized this as the opportunity for him to return the favor of informality, but he kind of liked his title. “I need to head up there and see what’s happening, but while I’m gone, I’d like you to make sure that none of the vehicles I see here are moved. Not an inch. And I want you to make sure that no other vehicles are permitted to come within a hundred yards of this place.”
    “For how long?”
    “Until I tell you otherwise.”
    “What am I supposed to tell the police and the media when they come flooding in here?”
    Russell laughed. “Tell the media whatever you’d like and send them away. If the cops are halfway professional, they’ll understand.”
    Sarah looked at him as if he were crazy.
    “Look, if our bad guy parked along the side of the road, his tires likely left an impression. That means we have to make castings of every tire print around here, and I need you to keep your vehicles in place so I can rule out their prints from all the others.”
    If any of this impressed her, she didn’t show it. “How long is that likely to take?”
    He shrugged. Frankly, such things didn’t matter to him. “I don’t know. Probably the better part of the day, by the time we get the technicians organized and mobilized. Welcome to police work, Ms. Rodgers. Now, can you spare someone to escort me up to the crime scene?”
     
    Tim Burrows stood with his back to the perimeter barricade tape, arms folded, admiring his work. Two hours ago, this patch of woods had looked just like the thousands of acres that surrounded it, distinguishable only by the presence of a dead human being