"What's so significant about Melinda Strickland that they'd do a story on her?" Joe asked.
"I asked Elle Broxton-Howard that," Brazille answered, butchering the accent even worse than before. "She said Melinda Strickland heads up some task force on the increase of violence against federal land managers by local yay-hoos 'out here in the American outback,' as she put it. And Melinda's a woman in a man's world, so yada-yada-yada."
Joe turned to ask Brazille what "increase of violence" he was referring to, but the driver downshifted and the racket within the cab was too loud to continue the conversation. The Sno-Cat nosed over the rim, and the wooded bowl was spread out in front of them. The brilliance of the snow hurt Joe's eyes. The snow had changed everything; the melded, muted greens, grays, and blues of the meadows and tree-covered folds of before were now portrayed in stark black and white, as if someone had adjusted the contrast of the picture to its most severe. The day had warmed up and the sunshine was lustrous. Pinpricks of reflected light flashed like sequins from the snow in the flats and meadows.
The next thing Joe observed was that something was wrong in the meadow where the elk had been killed. The area should have been undisturbed, but it was criss-crossed with tracks. Tapping him on the shoulder to get his attention, Joe asked the driver to stop, and swung outside the Sno-Cat. Standing on the running board, he raised his binoculars. Behind him, he heard the other two vehicles approach and stop, their motors idling.
It looked like a circus down there. He could see where the snow had been dug up and piled in places, and spots where the snow was discolored.
Joe reentered the cab and closed the door. He turned to Brazille. "When you boys are through with me I need to take my snowmobile down there and look around."
"What's the problem?" Brazille said.
"It looks like somebody found those elk," Joe said.
"Who in their right mind would be up here?" Brazille asked. "Who would give a shit about dead elk in these conditions?"
Joe shook his head. He was wondering the same thing. He turned back toward the front. "Me," he said, more to himself than to Brazille.
"If we find whoever it was, we've got to question them about Lamar Gardiner's murder," Brazille said. "Maybe they heard something, or saw something."
Joe nodded.
"Hell," Brazille said, raising his eyebrows, "Maybe they were the ones who did it." Joe led all of them through the heavy timber toward the tree where he had found Gardiner. The snow was thigh-high, with the consistency of flour. The men grunted and cursed behind him, and Joe felt a thin film of sweat growing between his skin and his first layer of clothing.
"How much farther?" Deputy McLanahan called out, between breaths.
"It's right up ahead," Joe answered, gesturing vaguely. It was hard to get his bearings, and he hoped he wouldn't walk beyond the tree.
"You carried Lamar all this way?" Barnum asked, his voice wheezing. "Jesus!"
"The snow wasn't as deep," Joe explained.
"Can we rest for a minute? I need some air," Melinda Strickland said, supporting herself against a tree trunk while she got her breath.
"Plus I've got some important calls to make," she said as she pulled a cell phone from her coat. She looked at the phone. "Shit, I don't have a signal up here."
"Don't you remember me saying that I couldn't get a signal from up here?" Joe asked, annoyed that she hadn't listened during the briefing that morning.
"Let's take a break before proceeding," she said, as if Joe hadn't spoken.
"You'd think she was leading the investigation," Barnum grumbled, although not loudly enough for Strickland to hear him. But the reporter, Elle Broxton-Howard, caught his remark and shot him a withering look.
"I don't think you're being fair to her," Broxton-Howard sniffed. "She is an amazing woman."
"Right," Barnum coughed, rolling his eyes toward Joe.
"When a man takes charge like that, he's a leader," Broxton-Howard said. "When a woman does it she's a nasty bitch."
Joe waded away from them in the fresh snow. He felt a sharp tug in his stomach. First, an elk slaughter. Then a murder. Then a storm. Now this Melinda Strickland. What in hell is her official involvement? He found the tree, spotting it by the glint on the twin shafts of the arrows. He had been concerned that the killer might have returned and dug them out of the soft wood with a knife blade. Finding the arrows brought a sense of relief.
Joe stopped and pointed. "I found him right there."
The party stopped and caught their breath. Billows of steam rose from them and dissipated above. The morning was eerily quiet, almost a vacuum. The storm had stilled the birds and the squirrels, who usually signaled the presence of strangers. The only natural sound was the occasional hushed whump of heavy snow falling from tree branches. One of the DCI men slid his day-pack from his shoulders and let it drop at his feet before unzipping it to dig out his evidence kit.
Joe stepped aside while the sheriff's officer and DCI men approached the tree.
"These arrows are Bonebuster-brand broadheads," one of the DCI agents said, leaning close to the thick, camouflage-colored shafts, but not touching them. "They have chisel-point tips that'll cut right through the spine of a big animal. These arrows are vicious bastards, and judging by how far they're sunk into the tree, whoever shot them had a compound bow with a hell of a pull on it. It's going to be tough to get these suckers out."
Joe shot a glance toward Strickland, who had had been quiet up until then. She stood in the trail, again cradling her cocker spaniel, cooing into the dog's ear. The Yorkie had been left to follow her, and did so by leaping through the deep snow in clumsy arcs. Strickland had not offered any advice, or suggested any procedure, since they had found the crime scene. Joe wondered if she really knew anything about conducting an investigation.
As if reading Joe's mind, Melinda Strickland spoke. "Elle needs to take some digital pictures of it," Strickland said, nodded to her. "We can use them in our investigation," she said.
"I can?" Elle Broxton-Howard asked, honored.
The local photographer had attached a filter to his lens to cut down the glare, and his camera made a distinctive sipping sound as he shot. Elle Broxton-Howard was obviously new to both her camera and this kind of photography, and she mimicked his actions with her digital camera. Getting the hint, the photographer offered to assist her. When she bent over to retrieve a dropped lens cap, McLanahan and Brazille eyed her form-fitting tights and exchanged boyish grins.
"I don't know what in the hell we can possibly find up here besides these arrows," Barnum complained. "This is a whole different world than it was three days ago."
Brazille shrugged, and agreed. Then he ordered one of his team to fire up the chain saw they had brought. Brazille's idea was to cover the arrows with a bag and cut down the tree, which was about a foot thick. They would then cut the trunk again, above the arrows, and transport the section back to town, where it would be shipped to the crime lab in Cheyenne. This way, he said, they wouldn't damage the arrows or smudge prints by trying to remove them from the wood.
"McLanahan, go through the trees over there to the other road and look for tracks or yellow snow," Barnum barked at his deputy. "If you find anything, take a picture of it and then bag it."
McLanahan made a face. "You want me to bag yellow snow?"
"It can be tested for DNA," one of the DCI agents said.
"Shit," McLanahan snorted.
"That, too," Barnum said flatly, which brought a laugh from Brazille. McLanahan scowled.
As one of the agents primed the chain saw, Joe turned.
"Do you need me for anything else?" he asked Brazille and Barnum. "If not, I need to check out that meadow."
Brazille waved Joe away. Barnum just glared at Joe, clearly still annoyed that Joe was there at all, butting in on his investigation.