Webster shrugged carelessly. “Go ahead.”

“By myself? Suppose there’s someone lurking in the back?”

Webster grimaced. “You just want me to puke.”

“Stop being such a wuss.”

“Them’s fightin’ words.”

“Good. Let’s go.”

The two of them trudged through the detritus of dried leaves and dead foliage, feeling the crunch under their shoes. The fumes grew stronger and more organic—the putrid stink of rotted flesh and waste. Dense clouds of black flies swirled about their faces, their hums intoning like a monk’s mantra. Webster swatted them away from his face.

The door to Tarpin’s cabin was partially open. Martinez pulled out a handkerchief, wrapped it around his hand, and gave the portal a sizeable nudge.

More flies rose up along with other creepy-crawlies—bees, wasps, mosquitoes, gnats, mites, spiders, beetles, and silverfish. A veritable bugfest of black and silver winged things as well as slithery creatures gorging themselves on flesh, bone, and blood. A large brown rat scampered across the wood-planked floor. Among the drones of the vermin and the odor of putrefaction lay Tarpin in a black-veined, maroon pond of sticky, coagulated blood and sera. His eyes were open; his mouth was agape, maggots wriggling through the open orifices. His hair was matted and wet, a natural breeding ground for anything with six legs. He was fully clothed. He had been shot in the head.

Pulling out a camera, Martinez started snapping pictures. Webster rocked on his feet, sensing electric flashes and sparkles dance through his once perfect vision. Abruptly, he excused himself.

Martinez watched him go. At least Webster had the smarts to lose it away from the crime scene. It would have been very unprofessional of him to contaminate the evidence.

Oliver parked his butt on a hard folding chair and slung his head back. Talking to the ceiling even though there were three other people in the room. “Every time we get a suspect, he winds up dead.”

“That’s the good news,” Marge responded. “It means we have very few people on our wanted list left to investigate. The bad news is if we strike out with them, we’re screwed.”

Oliver sat up, took off his jacket, then loosened his tie. “Doesn’t this place believe in air-conditioning?”

“It works great in the winter.” Decker wiped his face down with a handkerchief and tossed a manila envelope to Oliver. “Your passport, Detective. Dr. Estes is expecting you and Marge in an hour.” He looked at his detectives’ faces covered with sweat. “If you leave now, you’ll have plenty of time.”

Oliver took out the warrant. “How’d you pull it so fast?”

“I’ve got connections in high places. Also, Tarpin’s death sped things up.” Decker had taken off his jacket but had kept his tie knotted. He had large, wet ellipses under his armpits, and his neck was bathed in perspiration. Marge and Wanda wore short-sleeved blouses, but their armpits were damp as well.