Lucy asked, "You think Garrett dropped it?"
Sachs examined it. "I don't know. All I can say is that it didn't spend the night here. Moisture content's too low. Morning dew would have half disintegrated it."
"Excellent, Sachs. Where'd you learn that? I don't recall ever mentioning it."
"Yes, you did," she said absently. "Your textbook. Chapter twelve. Paper."
Sachs walked down to the water, searched the small boat. She found nothing inside. Then she asked, "Jesse, can you row me over?"
He was, of course, more than happy to. And she wondered how long it would be before he fired off the first invitation for a cup of coffee. Uninvited, Lucy climbed in the skiff too and they pushed off. The threesome rowed silently over the river, which was surprisingly choppy in the current.
On the far shore Sachs found footprints in the mud: Lydia's shoes--the fine tread of nurse sneakers. And Garrett's prints--one barefoot, one in a running shoe with the tread that was already familiar to her. She followed them into the woods. They led to the hunting blind where Ed Schaeffer had been stung by the wasps. Sachs stopped, dismayed.
What the hell had happened here?
"God, Rhyme, it looks like the scene was swept."
Criminals often use brooms or even leaf blowers to destroy or confuse the evidence at crime scenes.
But Jesse Corn said, "Oh, that was from the chopper."
"Helicopter?" Sachs asked, dumbfounded.
"Well, yeah. Medevac--to get Ed Schaeffer out."
"But the downdraft from the rotors ruined the site," Sachs said. "Standard procedure is to move an injured victim away from the scene before you set the chopper down."
"Standard procedure?" Lucy Kerr asked abrasively. "Sorry, but we were a little worried about Ed. Trying to save his life, you know."
Sachs didn't respond. She eased into the shed slowly so she wouldn't disturb the dozens of wasps that were hovering around a shattered nest. But whatever maps or other clues Deputy Schaeffer had seen inside were gone now and the wind from the helicopter had mixed up the topsoil so much that it was pointless to even take a sample of the dirt.
"Let's get back to the lab," Sachs said to Lucy and Jesse.
They were returning to the shore when there was a crashing sound behind her and a huge man lumbered toward them from the tangle of brush surrounding a cluster of black willows.
Jesse Corn drew his weapon but before he cleared leather Sachs had the borrowed Smittie out of the holster, cocked to double-action, and the blade sight aimed at the intruder's chest. He froze, lifted his hands outward, blinking in surprise.
He was bearded, tall and heavy, wore his hair in a braid. Jeans, gray T-shirt, denim vest. Boots. Something familiar about him.
Where had she seen him before?
It took Jesse's mentioning his name for her to remember. "Rich."
One of the trio they'd seen outside the County Building earlier. Rich Culbeau--she remembered the unusual name. Sachs recalled too how he and his friends had glanced at her body with a tacit leer and at Thom with an air of contempt; she kept the pistol pointed at him a moment longer than she would have otherwise. Slowly she aimed the weapon at the ground, uncocked it and replaced it in the holster.
"Sorry," Culbeau said. "Didn't mean to spook nobody. Hey, Jesse."
"This's a crime scene," Sachs said.
In her earphone she heard Rhyme's voice: "Who's there?"
She turned away, whispering into the stalk mike, "One of those characters out of Deliverance we saw this morning."
"We're working here, Rich," Lucy said. "Can't have you in our way."
"I don't intend to be in your way," he said, switching his gaze into the woods. "But I got a right to try for that thousand like everybody else. You can't stop me from looking."
"What thousand?"