Free Even Steven by John Gilstrap Page A

investigation and give him a shot at solving it himself. He'd even considered not notifying him, even though Coates was back in the country, but to do that would have been to invite a fusillade of criticism on himself. The Bureau understood and even supported the fact that everyone's advance came at the expense of someone else, but the rules of engagement punished any combatant whose agenda was too obvious.
    That was okay. He'd been out here in hell for eight months so far, leaving only sixteen more before he could move on. He just wanted to make damned sure that his next move was up and over. He'd had enough of this lateral-transfer shit. He wanted the glory and he wanted the power, and he didn't much care if everyone knew it. The ones who claimed lesser ambitions were either useless burnouts like Coates, or they were just plain lying. In any case, it wasn't Tim's style to hide his feelings.
    He checked his watch and shifted his feet. Typical of Coates, the half-hour arrival he'd promised was already running ten minutes late, and Tim had yet to see any sign of an approach. It couldn't possibly be much longer, even if the old fart was using a walker to climb the hill. Tim liked that image - a man so hopelessly out of shape and over-the-hill that he needed assistance climbing the trail. Tim smiled at the thought of it, then turned back to the business at hand. He had an investigation to run up here, and no matter how much of the glory Coates ultimately stole this one was going to go down in the books as strictly by-the-numbers And if it got thrown out of court one day because Coates had yet again screwed up the chain of evidence, then Tim would have over dozen witnesses to testify to the fine job he'd done up until the time when incompetence arrived on the scene.
    One glance told Russell that Tim Burrows had a good handle on things Judging by the hundreds of feet of barricade tape that had been stretched among the trees, he saw that the crime scene was a big one, roughly defined as the entire mountain. A sheriff's deputy challenged him as he approached, but stepped aside when Russell flashed his credentials.
    Tim looked more like a jungle grunt than an FBI agent, dressed in camouflaged BDUs with his H&K nine-millimeter strapped low on his thigh in a Velcro and nylon holster. Russell wondered if there'd ever been a time when he himself could have looked that good in a uniform. As it was, Russell sucked in his gut so it wouldn't bulge over the waistband of his jeans.
    "Hey, Tim," Russell opened as he approached his ASAC. "Bring me up to speed."
    Burrows imitated a warm smile and led with his hand. "Hey, Russell. How's the golf game?"
    "Didn't even bring the clubs. Decided to rip the lips off fish instead." After years of stress at the end of a golf club, Russell had finally determined that it wasn't his game. He'd take a smooth lake or a roaring surf anytime. Just him and the fish.
    Tim handed Russell two heavy rubber bands for his shoes - all investigators wore them to differentiate their footprints from the others - and led the way toward a blue paper sheet that they'd anchored against the breeze with a half dozen stout rocks. Russell figured correctly that the star of this investigation lay underneath. As they approached, a potbellied deputy kicked the rocks off one long side of the sheet and let the wind flop it over to reveal the corpse. "I figure time of death at twelve to eighteen hours," Tim said, "He's rigored up tight, and you can see the lividity for yourself."
    Indeed Russell could. The dead man lay on his stomach, and all the low spots of his body had turned purplish black from the stagnant blood pooled in his tissues.
    As he followed Tim in close to the body, Russell did his best to conceal his revulsion at the odor. Local homicide investigators had the luxury of getting used to this sort of thing. As infrequently as Russell did it, every murder was a new adventure in stamina.
    "The guy's a cop. Thomas Stipton from