Dance noted the thick wooden boards bolted over the windows of the one-story structure. The back door, the officer explained, was sealed too, similarly, and the front was reinforced with metal panels and multiple locks. It would have taken a battering ram to get inside.

She spotted a rifle, some scatterguns. Plenty of ammo.

Crime Scene had arrived too, dolled up in their Tyvek jumpsuits, booties and hoods.

“You can look around,” one officer said, “just mind the routine. Nothing’s bagged or logged yet.”

Meaning: Keep your hands to yourselves and wear booties.

They donned the light blue footwear and stepped inside. It was largely what she’d expected: The filthy cabin, latticed with beams overhead, was dingy and sad. Minimal furniture, secondhand. Jugs of water, cans of Chef Boyardee entrees and vegetables and peaches. Thousands of legal papers and several books of California statutes, well thumbed, with portions highlighted in yellow marker. The air was fetid. He’d used a bucket for his toilet. The mattress was covered with a gray sheet. The blanket was incongruous pink.

“Where’s the body?” O’Neil asked one of the officers.

“In there, sir.”

They walked into the back bedroom, which was barren of furniture. Otto Grant, disheveled and dusty, lay on his back in front of an open window. He’d hanged himself from a ceiling beam. The medical team had untied the nylon rope and lowered him to the floor, presumably to try to save him, though the lividity of the face and the extended neck told her that Grant had died well before the rescue workers arrived.

The window, wide open. She supposed he’d chosen this as the site of his death so he could look out over the pleasant hills in the distance, some magnolia and oak nearby, a field of budding vegetables. Better to gaze at as your vision went to black and your heart shut down than a wall of scuffed, stained Sheetrock.

“Michael? Kathryn?”

With a last look at the man who’d caused so much pain to so many, O’Neil and Dance stepped back into the living room to meet the head of the CSU examination team, dressed in overalls and a hood.

“Hey, Carlos,” Dance said.

The lean Latino CSU officer, Carlos Batillo, nodded a greeting. He walked to the card table that Grant had been using for his desk. The man’s computer and a portable router sat on the table. It was open to his blog, the entry that Dance had read to O’Neil on the drive here.

“Find anything else on it?” O’Neil asked.

“Bare bones. News stories about the stampedes. Some articles on eminent domain.”

Dance nodded at a Nokia mobile. “We know he hired somebody to handle the attacks. He’s the one we want now—that ‘soldier of fortune’ Grant referred to. Our unsub. Any text or call log data that could be helpful? Or is it pass-coded?”

“No code.” Batillo picked it up with a gloved hand. “It’s a California exchange, prepaid.”

When he told her the number Dance nodded. “The unsub called it from his burner, the one he dropped in Orange County. Can I see the log?”