“Before we get into the main subject,” I said, “let me point out that we also found the body of a black male, dead about ten years, at this site.” I indicated the red mark we’d made first. “He died of exposure.”

The sheriff seemed to be thinking back. “That might be Marcus Allbright,” he said slowly. “I was a deputy back then. His wife thought he’d run off. My God. I’ll go collect what’s left.”

I shrugged. Nothing to do with me. “Now, for Teenie Hopkins.” They all tensed, and Paul Edwards even leaned closer. “She was shot twice in the back, and her remains are right here.” I touched a spot with my fingertip.

There was an audible gasp from the people seated at the table.

“You saw her?” Hi, I’m TERRY, the MAYOR asked. His eyes were wide behind his wire-rimmed glasses. Mr. Mayor was on the verge of crying.

“Saw what’s left,” I said, and then reflected that a nod would have been sufficient.

“You mean,” the Teague woman said incredulously, “you left her out there?” Harvey Branscom gave her a look of sheer amazement.

I stared back at her with much the same expression. “It’s a crime scene,” I said. “And I don’t do body retrieval. I leave that to qualified people. You go get her, if you don’t want the sheriff to investigate.” Then I took a deep breath. This was the client. “Two shots in the back, so we still don’t know how it happened. If your son was shot first, then Teenie was killed by the same person. Of course, if it was your son who shot her, he then killed himself afterward. But I doubt he committed suicide.”

That shut her up, at least temporarily. I had the complete and utter attention of everyone in the room. “Oh my God,” whispered Sybil.

“So how do you know?” the sheriff asked.

“How do I find bodies in the first place? I just do. When I find ’em, I know what killed ’em. Believe me, don’t believe me. It’s up to you, now. You wanted me to find Teenie Hopkins, I found what’s left of her. There might be a bone or two missing. Animals.”

Sybil Teague was staring at me with an extraordinary expression on her face. She didn’t know whether to praise me or be disgusted by me. But at least I believed her son Dell had not committed suicide. She ran her hands over her golden-brown pants suit, over and over, smoothing the front of the light jacket, then the material over her thighs.