“Up here, on the left,” said the sheriff, slapping at a bloodsucker on the back of his neck. Solomon rarely had a problem with mosquitoes; he was a shallow breather, and attributed his relative immunity to the low amount of carbon dioxide he emitted, which drew the insects. Earl Solomon was a low-resting-heart-rate kind of guy, all the way around.

Sheriff Ingalls stopped before a tree that was measurably larger and older than those surrounding it, resting his hands upon his hips. Solomon held up one of the crime scene photographs, comparing it with the tree. Yes, this was the one.

“Knotted one end around this low branch here,” said the sheriff, pointing, “slung the line over that thick branch there, and strung him up.”

Solomon took in the area, turning around once, looking skyward. He turned and faced the direction the corpse had been facing in the photograph. The last vision of a murder victim interested him more than last words. Especially the victim of a lynching: He was a young black man in the Deep South, badge or no badge. Forgetting he was being watched, he dipped his head to one side, angling his neck, replicating the final position of the corpse’s head. Wondering whom he looked at: who stood here and watched a man die. Hanging parties never leave until the deed is done.

Solomon turned back toward the tree, catching the end of a glance between Sheriff Ingalls and SAIC Macklin. Both men, but especially the sheriff, were predisposed to the characterization of black men as simpletons. Solomon pushed himself not to make the same mistake in his estimation of these two men.

“You have the rope?” he said.

“Sure, yup,” said the sheriff with a shrug.

Macklin said, “Common rope, and more so than that, old rope. Could have come out of the barn of any property within fifty miles of here.”

Solomon said, “You got the shoe?”

Sheriff Ingalls said, “The what?”

Solomon pointed to Hack Cawsby’s stocking foot. “The shoe.”

“Yeah, we got the other shoe. Was here.”

Solomon nodded. “He either walked here under duress, was tricked into it, or came on the back of an animal.”

Sheriff Ingalls wasn’t very interested in being helpful. “We did a search ’round this area. Didn’t see no hoof marks.”

Solomon looked at the charred debris at the foot of the tree, beneath where the corpse had swung. “Burned some of the ground, though. Maybe to cover up something.”

“I don’t think they was having a campfire,” said the sheriff, already bored. “You wanted to see the crime scene. You said them photographs weren’t enough for you. Well—here it is. Now what?”

Solomon kicked aside some of the blackened twigs and leaves, the part that was undisturbed, using the tread of his shoes to preserve the shine of the black leather. As he had noticed on the walk in, the ground was softer and wetter underneath.