It didn’t take long. Especially in the warm weather they’d been experiencing. Absent a soul, the eyes glaze over and flatten, the skin loses color, the body’s temperature begins to drop. As if summoned, the blowflies come, laying their eggs in the wounds and orifices. A couple of hours after the last breath, rigor mortis begins in the jaw and neck, slowly spreading through the body. Bacteria rampaging through the abdomen cause gases to form, causing bloating, and the smell begins to gain strength.

It was the smell that got him today.

Vince dug a pack of Doublemint gum out of his pocket, unwrapped two sticks, and began to chew the taste of vomit out of his mouth.

He felt a little weak, a little dizzy. He had no time for either. To clear his head he thought about his bride of five months burrowing under the covers of their bed as he had dressed to leave for this crime scene. A warm sense of calm washed over him and he smiled a little at what a lucky son of a bitch he really was.

“You want to talk to the neighbor?”

Mendez had come out the kitchen door. He took a deep breath of the cool morning air, clearing his head of the stench of violent death. The yard around the house was scattered with pots of geraniums and marigolds and garden herbs. Vince took a deep breath of his own.

Mid-thirties, sharp and ambitious, Mendez had been a good candidate for the Bureau. That had been half of Vince’s goal when he had first come to Oak Knoll to help with the See-No-Evil murders the year before—to recruit Mendez. With some further education and experience, he would have made it to the Investigative Support Unit—the field side of Behavioral Sciences. He had shown a strong interest and talent for the job during his time at the National Academy. But See-No-Evil had consumed the young detective—as it had Vince. Mendez was still working it, trying to help the DA build as tight a case as possible against the man who had murdered at least three local women—and in Vince’s opinion, probably more.

“Yeah, sure,” he said. “Where is he?”

They went around to the front of the house where Bill Hicks sat on a porch bench, forearms resting on his thighs as he talked to the man who had called in the crime. Tall, lanky, red-haired, Hicks was a cowboy in his free time. He was good in an interview, had an easygoing way about him that helped take the edge off in an otherwise tense situation.

Hicks looked up and allowed himself a lazy smile. “Hey, Vince. Good to see you. How’s married life?”

Vince took a seat on an old painted metal chair. “Great. How you doing, Bill?”