He sets his medical case on the kitchen table. “How many?”

“Seven. The whole family.”

“Good God.” With the quick hands of a man who is as comfortable with his tools as he is in his own skin, he opens the leather case, works both hands into latex gloves, then slips a plastic, apron-like gown over his jacket and ties it in the back. Bending, he slides his Hush Puppy–clad feet into disposable shoe covers, pulls a small black vinyl case from the medical bag and looks at me over the tops of his glasses. “Show me the way.”

“We’ve got three in here. Two in the yard. Two more in the barn.” Motioning for the doc to follow, I enter the living room.

He heaves a sigh that sounds as old and tired as I feel. “I’ve been coroner for a while now, but I swear to God I’ll never get used to seeing dead kids.”

“The day you get used to that is the day you stop being human,” I respond.

“Or find another line of work,” Glock adds.

The doctor goes to the nearest victim, the teenaged boy, and kneels, setting the case on the floor next to him. “Some additional light would be helpful.”

The work lights we set up earlier dispel much of the darkness, but they’re not bright enough for the kind of work the doctor needs to do. Crossing to him, I shine my Maglite onto the victim.

The doc glances up at me, his eyes huge and troubled behind the thick lenses of his glasses. “Have you photographed the bodies?”

“We’ve got everything documented,” Glock says. “You can move them if you need to.”

Gently, the doc sets his hands on the boy’s head and shifts it slightly. From where I stand, I see blood-matted blond hair. The doc’s gloved fingers separate the hair revealing a neat, round hole the size of a pencil eraser a few inches above his nape. “This is the entry wound. This child was shot from behind.”

“Any idea what caliber of bullet was used?” I ask.

“I can guess.” He prods the scalp surrounding the hole. I see the pale flesh giving way beneath his fingers. Blood seeping from the hole, sucking back in when the pressure is released. “Judging from the size of the wound and the extent of skull fracturing, I’d say we’re talking about a small caliber handgun. Close range.”

“Can you be more specific than that, Doc?”

“Twenty-two caliber. Maybe a thirty-two.”

“Nine millimeter?” I ask.

“Maybe. I can’t say for certain yet.” With the same gentleness with which he would handle a newborn baby, he turns the boy’s head. Pink fluid leaks from the boy’s left nostril. “Exit wound might help narrow it down.”