‘Or male,’ said Lasco.
‘What do you mean “or male”?’ said Bob.
‘The body was wedged right in. We could only see from the chest up, really.’
‘So you’re saying you didn’t see tits and a va-jay-jay, so it could be a male? Give me a break. This noncommittal thing of yours is starting to get ridiculous.’
Lasco looked patiently at him. ‘Well, I’m still not sure you’re getting it,’ he said. ‘How many scenes have I been to where you guys have messed with shit before I show up? Pulling up people’s pants, taking weapons and laying them on a night stand … You guys walk in and take a guess at what happened. What you need to do is go on exactly what is there in front of you. Not what you’re adding to the picture. I could imagine all kinds of things happened to that body, but it doesn’t mean I would be correct.’
Bob stared through him. ‘FEMALE, aged thirty to forty, maroon jacket, white stripes down the arms. A navy blue wool hat?’
‘Fleece,’ said Lasco.
‘Fleece,’ said Bob. He was writing as he spoke. ‘What about eye color?’
‘Hard to say,’ said Lasco. ‘I wouldn’t be happy making that call.’
‘Hair?’
‘Hat.’
‘Nothing sticking out?’
‘I don’t recall.’
Bob looked patiently at Mike.
‘Obviously, neither do you,’ said Lasco.
‘Yeah,’ cos you’re so good about letting us get close to the body.’ He paused. ‘So,’ he said, ‘in conclusion, we have … fuck all.’
‘Oh,’ said Lasco. ‘Flashback: her hair went up my nose. Blonde.’
Bob sucked in a breath.
‘Oh,’ said Lasco. ‘Gunshot wound. Massive exit wound through her back.’
‘Holy shit,’ said Bob. He paused. ‘But why gunshot? You sure that wasn’t a puncture wound, a tree branch …’
‘No. It was a GSW,’ said Lasco.
‘You sure?’ said Bob. ‘It wasn’t a hole made by some chopsticks, a broom handle? Let’s keep one of those open minds here.’
‘Ha. Ha,’ said Lasco.
‘Ha. Ha. Ha,’ said Bob. He sat on the edge of the bed and closed his notebook. ‘I’m not looking forward to this shitstorm,’ he said. ‘Not one bit.’
There was a knock on the door. Bob walked over and opened it a crack. ‘Hey,’ he said. ‘How you doing?’ He turned back to Lasco. ‘It’s a special visit from some Special Agents.’
The Summit County Sheriff’s Office and the FBI were friends with benefits; one had local knowledge, the other had extra manpower, big budgets and technical resources. There were four hundred FBI resident agencies – RAs – across the United States, usually with one to three agents. The closest one to Breckenridge was in Glenwood Springs, one hundred miles west in Garfield County.
‘We were on a call-out to Frisco,’ said Tiny Gressett. ‘We heard the report, thought we’d stop by, see how Mr Lasco is … see if there’s anything we can do.’
There was no irony in Tiny Gressett’s name – a hair cut would have put him under the FBI height requirement. He was in his fifties with the lined, papery face of a smoker and the wind-burn of a mountain man. He had wavy black hair and razor-shy sideburns.
‘You enjoy the snow today?’ he said to Lasco.
‘Total blast,’ said Lasco.
Todd Austerval stepped a shy foot toward the patient. He was tall, blond and in his early thirties, straight-nosed with sharp cheekbones. He should have been more handsome, but he had a snarly mouth and blue eyes two shades too pale to ever warm. He spent his life trying to soften his appearance with good humor. ‘Heard you were snowcorpsing.’
‘Nothing is sacred around here,’ said Lasco.
‘Sure isn’t,’ said Gressett.
There was another knock at the door.
‘Let me get that,’ said Gressett.
The door pushed open anyway and one of the new recruits from the Sheriff’s Office walked in. He paused when he saw the two men in suits and looked, panicked, to Bob and Mike.
‘Uh, we got an ID,’ he said. ‘One of the Search and Rescue guys found it. Where you were at, Mr Lasco.’ He turned to Gressett and Todd. ‘I’m sorry. Are you guys FBI?’
They nodded. ‘Yes. From Glenwood.’
Lasco had an instant stab of memory – he had held that ID in his hand. He had waved it at the others: FBI creds.
Denver, Colorado
The Livestock Exchange Building was over one hundred years old with a history that had nothing to do with law enforcement. In skinny white type on the first-floor directory of offices, individual letters spelled out The Rocky Mountain Safe Streets Task Force, up there with the Colorado Brand Inspectors and Maverick Press. Behind the building was the Stockyard Inn and Saloon.
Gary Dettling sat in his office, reading an angry-wife email addressed to Stupid Stupid Asshole. After a while getting his breathing under control, he picked up the phone.
‘Yeah, OK, I get it. Supervisory Special Agent: Stupid Stupid Asshole. Do I get a prize?’
His wife bitched about her being his prize, something about playing with the box. Gary rolled his eyes, then let them wander to the photo on the wall beside him. It was a group shot of the twenty-six agents he had trained, all of them with paper bags over their heads; the UCEs – Under Cover Employees. He wanted a paper bag for his wife. Or a plastic one.
‘Gotta go,’ he said. ‘Something urgent is happening somewhere urgent. Urgently.’
‘You asshole.’
‘Stupid Stupid.’
She hung up. He loved her deeply, the crazy bitch. And he always fought for the things he loved. Gary was a violent crime expert and five years earlier had set this up – the FBI Rocky Mountain Safe Streets Task Force. He had fought the FBI, the chiefs of the local police departments – everyone who thought it was wrong to create a multi-agency task force and house it in a nine-dollars-a-square-foot non-federal building. The nine men and one woman who made up the unit were a mix of state troopers, local detectives, sheriff’s department investigators and FBI agents, all sharing the old-school bullpen next to Gary’s office. Egos were checked at the door and no one gave a shit who was from what agency. They worked robberies, kidnapping, sexual assault on children, serial killers, violent fugitives and crimes against persons in federal prisons, military bases, national parks and Indian reservations.
‘Hey, where’s our beloved Ren Bryce today?’ said Robbie Truax, the youngest – twenty-nine, toned, tanned and talky; Aurora PD’s contribution to Safe Streets. He was kneeling on a chair by the window looking out at the fire escape. A hawk was slicing back and forth through the entrails of a dead pigeon like he was stitching up a wound.
‘Nice work, buddy,’ he said. He turned around. ‘So where is she?’
‘Stout Street?’ said Cliff. Cliff James was fifty-two years old and had spent twenty-five-years with the Jefferson County Sheriff’s Office. Stout Street was the FBI federal building in downtown