Deep South by Nevada Barr Page A

dressed herself as KKK-or Casper the Friendly Ghost-and been killed for it, or if her killer had put the drape on her, attempted to hang her, when she ran and was clubbed down. "Don't speculate," Anna told herself, aware of the danger of falling in love with a theory to the exclusion of the facts.
    Standing with her back to the dead girl, she looked in the direction that she and her killer must have come from. The murdered girl wore square-heeded sandals, as easy to follow as Heather's. Despite the creeping river of life that covered the ground, if she'd come this way on her own two legs, Anna would soon know it.
    Backtracking could wait. She turned again to the green pocket holding the body. The feet looked so tiny and pathetic in their silly shoes. The patent leather of the sandals was specked with mud and the rhinestone-studded strap over the ankle of the left foot had been broken. Runs scarred the hose on both legs and smears of mud discolored the knees. This child had been chased, and not in fun. She had run hard enough and through rough enough country that she must have been terribly frightened.
    Considering the end she had met, the fear wasn't unfounded. One of her hands was hidden beneath the folds of the sheet that had become her shroud but the other lay palm up, sad and white on the rich drop-cloth of green. The nails were neatly painted, none broken or discolored. A few scratches crosshatched her forearms but they were thin, shallow; she'd probably gotten them from branches hitting her as she fled.
    From the looks of it, she had run, but she had not fought. Young ladies were not taught to fight. Not for the first time, Anna thought that was a crying shame. Especially in a world where young girls, like baby ducklings, were at the bottom of the food chain.
    From where she stood, Anna could see the rest of the rope that formed the noose. Partially hidden in the grass and weeds, it snaked up from where it was tied around the neck to vanish into the undergrowth. Moving with care, she continued to circumnavigate the scene until she stood above the sheeted corpse, opposite the fungus-covered log. The rope was pulled this direction, pulled taut then dropped. The line of yellow nylon ran straight for about three yards, then the remainder lay all in a heap. Had the girl been dragged, half blinded by the sheet, a rope around her neck like an animal? Tears and bile mixed in Anna's throat.
    Swearing softly, she turned away. She'd never given much thought to the hierarchies of murder, the good, the bad, the brutal. But this was the stuff of nightmares. This was why the NPS kept all those shrinks on tap to work with rangers after an ugly event. Anna'd always hated those sessions. Maybe this time it wouldn't be such a bad idea.
    The sound of voices cut into her thoughts. She reminded herself she was a grown-up, a district ranger for Christ's sake, glad to see them but not too glad. Then she hollered, "Over here." A county sheriff had never looked so good, but Anna congratulated herself on handling it well. The only slip was she did step forward to shake the man's hand just as if she'd not done the same thing when she met him several hours earlier, Thigpen arrived in the sheriff's wake. He was wringing wet with sweat and huge with pompous proclamations about waiting for the arrival of the chief ranger, about his strong suspicion that the body would be found just precisely here. Other than to tell him not to smoke or in any other way risk contaminating the crime scene, Anna pretty much ignored him.
    Davidson stood on the edge of the depression that held the girl, letting Ranger Thigpen's ongoing advice wash over him.
    Self-discipline or Southern manners kept him from demanding the silence the death of a child and the mind of a policeman required.
    Under his breath, he whistled a tune Anna'd heard once before, a long time ago, but couldn't place. Comfortable in her skin again, she waited, letting him think. Finally he said, "You look