I hurried across an open patch of scrub brush to a hedge of dogwood. Our sedan was parked in a grassy ditch off the local state highway, just on the other side of this strip of woods. I moved through the forest, angling between the vertical lines that made up the dark trees at night. When I could see the car, I placed the stack of plastic containers in the dirt and ran back for more.
3:56 a.m.
Back at the mobile home, Shooter had paused after making the first incision. She had her phone out. Before we burned the body, she was doing the smallest of autopsy reports.
“Dead body of known male, Frederick Pecos, found in his home by Agents Gardner Camden and Joanne Harris,” she dictated.
“No time,” I said.
She glared at me. “I can do it.” Turning back to Freddie, she continued, “The body is stiff at the joints, the hands clenched and smeared in blood. Postmortem lividity cannot be fully appreciated given the… particular time constraints. But it appears as if he’s been dead a solid day.”
I moved past her and into the bedroom. Grabbed another stack of boxes.
3:57 a.m. with an ETA of 4:00 by the Sandoval gang.
“Oval lacerated entry wound,” Shooter said as I passed. “Slightly charred, with blackening around it.”
I ran out the door.
3:58.
I got another stack over to the edge of the forest by the road. On my trip back, Shooter had concluded her oral report and was struggling with her pocketknife.
“No bullet yet,” she said.
I glanced at my phone. 4:02.
I ripped a Hefty bag from a box under the sink and dumped Freddie’s trash in it. Threw in the receipts from the pizza boxes. Anything to help build a timeline of when he was alive and when someone had gotten to him.
And the big question: If it wasn’t the Sandoval gang, who the hell had shot our C.I.?
I ran the trash and more debit cards over to the tree line. Popped the trunk to the sedan and tossed in the Hefty bag. Under my black Gor-Tex, I was coated in sweat.
Back at the mobile home, I grabbed a wire hanger from Freddie’s closet and straightened it, standing near the door.
“Got the bullet,” Shooter yelled, holding up a bloody chunk of metal.
I took the wire hanger and stuck it in the locking mechanism, attempting to jam it.
4:05 a.m.
“See if he’s got keys,” I said, and Jo searched the body. She founda set and tossed it to me. As I caught them, I eyed my phone and saw the time.
“We gotta go.”
I stepped outside, determining which key was for the mobile home. Hearing a noise, I froze. It was a semitruck, downshifting on the highway. I took the key off the ring. Tossed the others inside. “Push him off the couch,” I yelled.
“What?”
I bent my head to see inside. “Onto that rug.” I pointed. “So we can drag him over here.”
“Right,” she said, toppling the body onto the rug. “Staging the place.”
I moved closer to Shooter and unplugged Freddie’s cell phone. Pocketed it. Then we dragged his body over until he nearly blocked the door. Stepping over him, I opened a liquor cabinet that I’d seen when we first got there. Found two bottles of Everclear. Dumped the 189-proof grain alcohol all over his body.
Shooter took a picture of Freddie. Spun in a circle and captured a few more shots with her phone.
I checked the time again. 4:09 a.m. Still quiet somehow.
