Had one shot the other, then turned the gun on himself? If so, why? And which way around?

Had Beck and his companion fought following a night of drugs, alcohol, or both? Was Snook wrong about her half brother’s new commitment to sobriety?

The murder-suicide scenario wasn’t persuasive. Face-to-face shootings rarely involve a rifle. I made a note to ask if remnants of a weapon had been found at the scene.

Had Beck or the older man torched the house? Had someone else? Was the fire accidental?

Who was the older guy? Why had no one reported him missing? Was he not local?

I flipped to a blank page in my notebook and began a time line.

Farley McLeod died in 2007, Daryl Beck in 2008, Annaliese Ruben and Ronnie Scarborough yesterday. All were connected by kinship. Were their deaths connected? How?

Castain was also murdered yesterday. He wasn’t a relative. Where did he fit in?

Castain and Scarborough were taken out in drive-bys. Ruben was shot by a man on foot, almost certainly with a rifle. Beck and his buddy were killed with a hunting rifle.

Had the same weapon been used in all five shootings? Had the drive-bys been by pistol?

McLeod went down in a Cessna. His body was never recovered. Ruben’s body was also missing. Was this coincidental? Significant?

I felt agitated. Too many questions and too few answers. So complicated.

Too complicated.

And such a high body count. Even excluding the babies.

Courtney returned with the cranial fragments and X-rays.

Snowing on some, not on others. I saw no feature to allow assignment as Beck or non-Beck.

Courtney looked at me, eager for the inside poop.

“Thank you so much for your help.” I smiled an ultra-sincere smile. “I couldn’t have done this without you.”

She opened her mouth to speak.

“Do you have something I can use to keep the bones separated?”

She hurried off, hurt darkening her hazel eyes.

I was placing Beck’s bones in the tub when she returned with two cotton towels. I wrapped the cranial fragments in one, the older man’s remains in the other, tucked the bundles next to Beck, and pressed the lid into place.

“And the casket?” A wee bit petulant.

“Call,” I said. “The funeral home will collect it. And again: thank you so much. Maureen will be very pleased.”

Courtney nodded, trying but failing to hide her disappointment.

“I’m sorry. You know I can’t share details of an investigation.”

“I know.”

“Please keep everything you’ve seen here confidential.”

“Of course.”

“You’d make an excellent forensic nurse, Courtney.”

“Honestly?”

“If you’d like, I’ll send information.”

“Yes, please. And … anytime.”

*  *  *

“First I’ll explain what I see. Then you’ll explain why I’m looking at it on a beautiful Sunday morning.”

Marc Bergeron hadn’t given me the same time-zone consideration I’d given him. His call blasted me awake at six-forty-five.