West crouched to see the world from a different angle. Parsons was half on his back and half on his side in a nest of bloody leaves, his eyes sleepy slits and dull. Dr. Odom inflicted yet one more indignity by inserting a long chemical thermometer up the rectum to get a core temperature. Whenever the medical examiner touched the body, more blood spilled from holes in the head. West knew that whoever was doing this had no plan to stop.

Brazil wasn’t going to stop, no matter how much West got in his way. He had done all he could to capture visual details and mood, and now he was on the prowl. He happened to notice a new bright blue Mustang parked near an unmarked car, where a teenaged boy sat in the front seat with a detective Brazil had seen before, running around impersonating a drug dealer. Brazil took more notes as the teenager talked and paramedics zipped the body inside a pouch. Reporters, especially Webb, were obsessed with getting footage and photographs of the murdered man being carried away like a big black cocoon. No one but Brazil focused on the teenager climbing out of the detective’s car and returning to his Mustang, in no hurry.

The top was down, and when Brazil headed toward the flashy car, the teenager’s blood began to pound with excitement again. The nice-looking blond guy had a reporter’s notepad in hand. Jeff Deedrick got out his Chap Stick and cranked the engine, trying to look cool as his hands shook.

“I’m with The Charlotte Observer,” Brazil said, standing close to the driver’s door. “I’d like to ask you a few questions.”

Deedrick was going to be famous. He was seventeen but could pass for twenty-one unless he got carded. He would get all those girls who, before this night, had never paid him any mind.

“I guess it’s all right,” Deedrick reluctantly said, as if weary of all the attention.

Brazil climbed inside the Mustang, which was new and did not belong to Deedrick. Brazil could tell by the dainty blue lanyard keychain that matched the color of the car. Most guys too young to drink didn’t have cellular phones, either, Brazil noted, unless they were drug dealers. He was willing to bet that the Mustang belonged to Deedrick’s mother.

First Brazil got name, address, phone number, and repeated every syllable back to Deedrick to make certain all was correct. This he had learned the hard way. His first month on the job, he had gotten three We Were Wrong s in a row for insignificant, picayune errors relating to insignificant details, such as somebody junior versus somebody the third. This had resulted in an obituary about the son, versus the father. The son was having tax problems, and didn’t mind the mistake. He had called Brazil, personally, to request that the paper leave well enough alone. But Packer wouldn’t.

Perhaps Brazil’s most embarrassing mistake, and one he preferred not to think about, was when he covered a loud, volatile community meeting about a controversial pet ordinance. He confused a place with a person, and persisted in referring to Latta Park this and Miss Park that. Jeff Deedrick, however, he had right, of this Brazil made sure. There would be no problems here. Brazil eyed the crime scene in the distance, as paramedics loaded the body into the ambulance.