the printing remained in the upper-left-hand corner to identify its origins.

“What’d you find?” Pam asked.

“An envelope from the Department of Veterans Affairs.”

“You think it’s from Junior’s glove box?”

“That’s my guess. The valet key was in the ignition, but the key to the glove box wasn’t.”

Pam inserted her thumbs in her gun belt, her elbows sticking straight out from her sides. Then she scratched her forearm, her eyes gazing back at the wrecked pickup. “Junior went out to Pete and Vikki’s place and got Pete’s disability check for him. But he didn’t forward it,” she said, more to herself than the sheriff. “Why not?”

“Probably cold feet.”

“Or the fact he could be a mean-spirited, self-righteous bastard when he wanted to,” she said.

“How about it, Sheriff?” one of the paramedics shouted from above.

“Come on down,” he replied, just as the sun broke above the rim of the arroyo and lit its sharp surfaces with a glare that burned the shade away within seconds.

FIVE HOURS LATER, Darl Wingate, the coroner, came into Hackberry’s office. He had been a career forensic pathologist with the army before retiring. Regardless of the skill or knowledge he had acquired in his own field, he seemed to apply none of it to his own life. He smoked, ate poorly, drank too much, had terrible relationships with women, and appeared to make a religion out of cynicism and callousness. Hackberry often wondered if Darl’s profligate attitude toward both morality and his own health was manufactured, or if indeed he wasn’t one of those whose experience in the world had caused him to believe in nothing.

“Did y’all find a tooth in the vehicle?” Darl said.

“No, we didn’t.”

Darl had pulled up a chair and was sitting on the far side of the desk. He had a face like a parody of a stage character’s, with a cleft in the chin and a tiny mustache, the cheeks slightly hollowed by either age or a sickness he disclosed to no one. Hackberry smelled a mint on his breath and wondered what time that morning Darl had poured his first drink.

“Vogel had a gaping hole where a molar should have been. It wasn’t broken off. There were deep bruises inside the lips,” Darl said.

“He was tortured?”

“Have you eaten lunch?”

“No.”

“How much do you want to hear before you eat?”

“Get to it, will you, Darl?”

“There was a lot of penile and testicular damage. It was probably done with a metal instrument. Probably the same pliers somebody used on his mouth. Cause of death was a coronary.”

“His neck wasn’t broken?”

“It was broken, all right, but he was already dead when that happened.”

“You’re sure about all this?”

Darl fitted a cigarette into a gold holder, then put it and the holder away, as though remembering Hackberry’s proscription against smoking in the building. “Maybe he pulled his own tooth,” he said. “Or maybe the steering wheel hit him in the face and cut him inside the mouth but not outside. Or maybe his genitals were remodeled by the airbag that didn’t inflate. You want to know what I really think?”

“Go ahead.”

“That whatever information this poor guy had, he begged to give it up unless his wick went out first. I hope that’s what happened. I hope he sank down in a big well of blackness. I got to have a smoke. I’ll be outside.”

“I need to make a phone call. Go to lunch with me.”

“I already ate.”

“Go to lunch with me anyway,” Hackberry said.

After Darl had gone outside, Hackberry called the FBI agent Ethan Riser. “I’ve got a problem of conscience here. I’m going to lay it off on you, and you can do whatever you want with it,” he said.

“What’s this big problem?” Riser said.

“Junior Vogel was probably run off the road yesterday and tortured to death. Your man from ICE, this character Clawson, wanted to put him in custody, but I talked him out of it.”

“Clawson was talking with Vogel?”

“You didn’t know?”

“I don’t always have an opportunity to talk with Clawson directly.”

Hackberry wondered at the amazing amount of latitude bureaucratic language could create for its practitioners. “I think Junior had Pete Flores’s disability check in his possession,” he said. “I think he was probably going to forward it to Pete. We should have been on top of that check, you guys as well as me and my department.”

“We were.”

“Sir?”

“Clawson had another agent on it. They messed up.”

“You sure that’s all there is to it?” Hackberry said.

“Want to explain that?”

“I think your man Clawson has serious psychiatric problems. I don’t