He places the camera in my palm. Wrapping the strap around my wrist, hoping I don’t fall and ruin it, I work my way back out to the body. I stop two feet away, brace my feet against the pull of the water, and start snapping photos. It’s difficult to make out the details because of the murkiness and glare. The raging current is whipping the body back and forth with such force that I hear it striking the deck’s pier.

I leave the water and shoot a dozen more photos from different angles as the firefighters cut the body loose. The rope drags behind them like a dead snake as they carry the victim to shore. Doc Coblentz and a young female technician, who’s staring at the body as if she’s expecting it to turn into a zombie at any moment, spreads a black zippered body bag on grass that’s been pulverized to mud. The firefighters lay the victim in a supine position atop the vinyl.

When the two men step away, I move closer and look down at the body. The face is discolored and swollen, but not so much that I don’t recognize him. “It’s Jerrold McCullough,” I say.

One of the rescuers comes up beside me. “Looks like he’s been submerged awhile,” he says as he removes his life vest.

I look at Doc Coblentz. “Any idea how long?”

The doc shakes his head. “Skin hasn’t begun to slough. Not much in the way of bloating. If I had to guess, I’d say less than twenty-four hours. I’ll get a liver temp once I get him to the morgue.”

Skid’s gaze snags mine. “That means he was there last night when you and Glock were here, looking for him.”

“The water hadn’t yet reached the deck,” I say. “If he was alive and conscious, he heard us.”

“Kate, look at his knees.” The coroner glances up at me from where he’s kneeling next to the body.

I kneel beside him and watch as he indicates holes in the man’s trousers at both knees. Using scissors, he cuts away the wet fabric and reveals neat round bullet holes in both knees. “Looks like gunshot wounds,” he says.

“Holy shit,” Skid mutters from somewhere behind me.

The doc studies the wounds. “I won’t be sure until I get X-rays, but it looks like on the left knee, the bullet hit the patella. On the right, it looks as if it penetrated the soft tissue between the patella and tibia.”

“Was he alive when he was shot?” I ask.

“There’s bruising. Swelling. I would say yes, he was alive when he sustained those two wounds.”

I look down at the body and try not to wince at the images prying into my brain. “Doc, can you cut away that duct tape?”