The actual stomping ground was a mesa, fronted by a panoramic view and surrounded by a moat of deep drops and gorges. Not a whole lot of room to square-dance, but it did allow the camp officials to do roll call with a sweep of the eye. Off to the left, two large canvas huts had been erected. The rest of the flattened ground was covered with sleeping bags. Eleven dazed teenagers—Decker had counted them—were seated on the ground, resting, staring, or playing cards using sunflower seeds as money. They were in various states of dress—from pajamas to jeans and an undershirt. None of the kids made eye contact as he walked by, but Decker could feel them watching his back with suspicious, hardened eyes. It took an act of will not to look over the shoulder.

The wilderness was an unincorporated area, co-manned by Decker’s substation, the conservatory park rangers, and the sheriff’s department. Usually, homicides up in the hills were taken over by the sheriff’s department, but since Mervin Baldwin and Ernesto Golding were locals, someone had been smart enough to phone him up. Decker hoped that the call indicated interdepartmental cooperation instead of a macho-uniform pissing contest. He wanted the case and the other agencies would give it to him if he treated all involved with respect. He smiled first and then flashed his badge, approaching one of the park rangers. Her name was Landeau, and she was a big woman with thick wrists. Her hair was tied back in a ponytail, and sweat dotted a protruding forehead. It wasn’t that hot, so Decker concluded that the perspiration came from physical exertion.

She said, “The crime scene’s the bigger of the two shelters.” Her voice trembled as she spoke. “There’re about a dozen officers combing the area.”

Decker stared at the view. “What are they looking for?”

“Pardon?”

He turned to face her. “What are the officers in the mountains looking for?”

“Oh. The perpetrator, of course.”

Which meant the area was already trampled upon.

Decker said, “Do they know who the perpetrator is?”

Landeau stuttered, “N-no…I mean I don’t know…maybe someone else does.”

Decker didn’t say anything. He looked around, his gaze taking in the boys, then skipping over to a man dressed in battle fatigues, being questioned by two uniforms. In the background, he heard the strain of more vehicles making their way up the mountain.

Decker pointed to the combat guy. “Who’s that?”

“Corporal Hank Tarpin.” She consulted her notes. “Formerly from the USMC. He calls himself the Chief Nature Master—the camp coordinator in charge of the day-to-day activities. He found the bodies and identified them.”

“As Golding and Merv Baldwin.”

“Yes.”

Decker nodded. “I’ll go talk to him.”

“Yes, sir,” Landeau answered. She was clearly glad to get rid of him.