After walking a gauntlet of good old boys in uniform, we find Walker Dennis seated behind his desk, watching CNN on a TV mounted in an upper corner of the room, as in a hospital. Like Sheriff Billy Byrd, Walker wears a Stetson, but he’s younger than Byrd (maybe forty-seven) and in slightly better shape. In my youth, I played a few baseball games against Vidalia teams that starred Walker Dennis, but unlike me, he went on to play college ball. Walker’s default expression is a smile of private amusement, as though he’s in possession of information others are not. As Henry and I take the seats he offers us, I note the usual artifacts of political office around the room: framed photos with local dignitaries and sports stars, memorabilia from notable cases, and citations from various civic and professional groups.

I know nothing of Sheriff Dennis’s politics, but no sheriff in North Louisiana gets elected for being liberal. This is hard-shell Baptist country, as red as Mississippi when it comes to political litmus tests. On the other hand, 40 percent of this parish is black, and the city of Ferriday has a much higher black-white ratio than that. Walker couldn’t do his job if he didn’t know how to walk the tightrope between the races.

Before he speaks, the sheriff leans back in his chair and gives us an expansive smile, distorted by the dip of snuff packed beneath his lower lip. “I’m mighty honored to have the mayor of Natchez over here,” he says, obviously meaning to begin with small talk, the Vaseline of political interaction in the South. “Must be important business.”

“It is,” I say flatly.

The sheriff’s smile vanishes like smoke. “Let’s hear it, Penn.”

I lay the wet newspaper on his desk and open it to reveal the dark bone with rusted barbed wire set in it.

“What’s this?” Dennis asks, leaning over his desk.

“Looks like a piece of ulna to me.”

“A what?”

“An arm bone.”

The sheriff clears his throat. “Who’d it belong to?”

“Luther Davis, probably,” Henry says.

The sheriff’s cheeks lose three shades of color.

“Luther was a big man,” Henry says, “much bigger than Jimmy Revels. We also found a leg bone, and it’s big, even for a femur. These bones were found underneath a convertible, which is what Luther Davis drove before he disappeared. Those bones almost certainly belong to Luther Davis.”

A sheen of sweat has formed on the sheriff’s scalp and forehead. “And where is this convertible?”

“At the bottom of the Jericho Hole,” Henry says with a touch of resentment. I’m guessing he’s asked Walker Dennis to investigate that body of water before. “We didn’t even have to look hard.”

“Sweet Jesus,” Dennis almost moans. “Did you have a federal warrant or something?”