My eyes dropped back to the print. The skeleton was ful y extended, its right arm and hip partial y obscured by a rock or ledge. An object lay in the dirt beside the left knee. A familiar object.

“Where does this come from?” I looked up. Kessler was again checking to his rear.

“Israel.”

“Mr. Ferris was afraid his life was in danger?”

“Terrified. Said if the photo came to light there’d be havoc.”

“What sort of havoc?”

“I don’t know.” Kessler raised two palms. “Look, I have no idea what the picture is. I don’t know what it means. I agreed to keep it. That’s it. That’s my role.”

“What was your connection to Mr. Ferris?”

“We were business associates.”

I held out the photo. Kessler dropped his hands to his sides.

“Tel Detective Ryan what you’ve told me,” I said.

Kessler stepped back. “You know what I know.”

At that moment my cel sounded. I slipped it from my belt.

Pel etier.

“Got another cal about Bel emare.”

Kessler sidestepped me and moved toward the family room.

I waggled the print. Kessler shook his head no and hurried down the hal .

“Are you ready to release the Cowboy?”

“I’m on my way up.”

“Bon.Sister’s busting her bloomers for a burial.”

When I disconnected and turned, the hal was empty. Fine. I’d give the photo to Ryan. He’d have a copy of the list of observers. If he wanted to fol ow up, he could get contact information for Kessler.

I pressed for the elevator.

By noon I’d completed my report on Charles Bel emare, concluding that, however strange the circumstances, the Cowboy’s last ride had been the result of his own fol y. Turn on. Tune in. Drop out. Or down, in Bel emare’s case. What had he been doing up there?

At lunch, LaManche informed me there’d be difficulty viewing Ferris’s head wounds in situ. X-rays showed only one bul et fragment, and indicated the back of the skul and the left half of the face were shattered. He also informed me that my analysis would be critical since mutilation by the cats had distorted the patterning of metal ic trace observable on X-ray.

In addition, Ferris had fal en with his hands beneath him. Decomposition had rendered gunshot-residue testing inconclusive.

At one-thirty I descended again to the morgue.

Ferris’s torso was now open from throat to pubis, and his organs floated in covered containers. The stench in the room had kicked into the red zone.

Ryan and the photographer were there, along with two of the morning’s four observers. LaManche waited five minutes, then nodded a go-ahead to his autopsy tech.