“No, sir. Rigor refers to the stiffening of the deceased’s muscles, usually two or three hours after death. Livor mortis occurs sooner. It refers to the pooling of the blood in the lowest parts of the body, once the heart stops beating. In this case it was observable in their feet.” He tapped a computer key several times, scrolling rapidly through a series of photos and stopping when the screen showed a close-up of the victims’ legs from the knees down. The skin tone was brown except on the feet, where it was a dark purple. There were bruises on the shins and abrasions on the ankles.
Shucker’s expression suggested he’d been given more information than he’d wanted.
Torres continued. “In a few minutes, we’ll come back to some marks on the feet that could be very significant. But first we’ll proceed in the normal order of our victim close-ups, starting at the head and working our way down.”
Displaying photos of both men in a split-screen format as he spoke, he pointed out numerous contusions on their faces, torsos, and legs. His voice was tight with an apparent effort to control his distress—but the details of his commentary were vivid enough to provoke a response from the blind sheriff.
“It does sound like them boys truly got the shit beat out of them.” To say his tone was uncaring would overestimate its warmth.
Torres stared at him. He tapped a key and brought up a final pair of photos on the split screen—closeup shots of the soles of the victims’ feet.
Kline leaned forward. “Jesus, what on God’s earth . . . ?”
Turlock gazed at the screen with no more reaction than a boulder.
A frown darkened Beckert’s face—a cloud passing over Mount Rushmore.
The mayor looked confused and worried.
Burned deeply into the sole of each victim’s left foot were three capital letters, a grotesque monogram. It brought to Gurney’s mind an image from an old Western—red-hot letters on the end of a branding iron, smoking and hissing into the side of a steer.
KRS
The sheriff broke the fraught silence. “The hell y’all gone quiet for?”
Torres described the photo.
“Shit,” muttered the sheriff.
Shucker looked around the table. “KRS? What the hell’s that, somebody’s initials?”
“Could be,” said Beckert.
Gurney was pretty sure it was something else. He knew from experience that initials left at murder scenes generally stood for an organization the killer considered himself part of or for a title he’d given himself.
“KRS brings to mind KKK,” said the sheriff. “If this damn thing gets pegged as a white-supremacist hate crime, we’ll get overrun by the feds, which is unpleasant to contemplate. You got any thoughts on that, Dell?”
“I’m sure we can postpone FBI intrusion for a while. After all, this could be a personal revenge killing rather a racial act—a tricky argument to make, I know, but it could serve our purposes.”
“BDA agitators’ll be screamin’ for federal intervention.”
“No doubt. To keep control of the process, we need to—number one—craft the right public message. And—number two—demonstrate rapid progress toward an arrest. Those are both achievable objectives—so long as we adhere to procedures, manage our communications carefully, and avoid stupid mistakes.”
Shucker looked miserable. “I just hope to God we don’t start hearing on TV that White River’s got Ku Kluxers running around killing people in public parks. The tourist-dependent members of the Chamber would go—”
Shucker’s worry was cut off by three loud raps at the conference room door. Before anyone could respond, it was thrust open and the lanky medical examiner strode in and hefted his fat briefcase onto the chair next to Kline’s.
“Hate being late, gentlemen, but there’s been more autopsies in the past three days than in three normal months.”
Beckert told him to proceed.
Thrasher removed a sheet of paper from his briefcase, perused it for a few seconds, and put it back. He pushed his horn-rimmed glasses higher on the bridge of his nose and surveyed the group around the table. His gaze hesitated for only a moment at Gurney before he launched into a summary of his findings.
“Both victims suffered death by asphyxiation, consistent with strangulation. Multiple contusions on face, torso, arms, and legs are consistent with a methodical assault, utilizing at least two distinct club-like instruments.”
Torres asked, “Like baseball bats?”
“One of them, possibly. There were also contusions caused by something the approximate diameter of a police nightstick.”
“So,” Kline mused, “at least two assailants.”
Thrasher nodded. “A reasonable inference.”
Torres looked uncomfortable. “You say one of them used a nightstick?”
“Or something similar. Typical nightsticks have circular grooves at one or both ends to improve the wielder’s grip. Welts across the lower back of the victims display patterns consistent with grooves.”
The sheriff spoke up. “Anyone can get anything these days on the internet. So I hope we ain’t assumin’ the presence of a nightstick implies the presence of a police officer.”
