trousers and stared around at the un-climbable walls. “Cliffs ain’t too tall, maybe twenty feet, but that’s enough.”
“Assuming they were cut off from the way they came in,” McKean observed, “then they’d have had nowhere to go, leaving them little choice but to die out in the open.”
“Like Custer’s last stand,” the sheriff remarked. “They probably covered each other’s backs, but it didn’t help. Whoever it was got ‘em anyway.’
“The coroner’s report mentioned shotguns,” McKean said.
“Each of ‘em had a shotgun,’ the sheriff said. ‘With birdshot rounds for duck hunting. Odd thing is, the guns weren’t stolen. They stayed right where they fell, one next to each bloodstain.’
“Had they been fired?” McKean asked.
“Yep, a buncha times. Nine shell casings on the ground from the one and seven from the other.”
“There’s quite a profusion of footprints here,” McKean observed, wandering to and fro like a bloodhound seeking a scent and following dusty tracks that crisscrossed the bloodstains. “Boot prints, shoe prints and, what are those, dog prints?”
“Dog or coyote,” Tanner replied. “Or both.”
McKean leaned his angular body to get a close look at a patch of dusty ground with a particularly heavy mixture of human and animal tracks. “Are any of these thought to be perpetrator footprints?” he asked.
“Not a one of ‘em,’ Tanner said. ‘Lots of tracks around here now, from the duck hunters that found them and the State Patrol Forensics Unit, but that’s one of the odd things about this case. There weren’t any human tracks here at all until the duck hunters showed up.’
“If not human tracks,” McKean remarked, “then what?”
“Just them coyote tracks. All over the place. A whole pack. Big pack.”
“What were they doing here?” I asked, half-guessing the answer.
“Eating,” Tanner answered disdainfully.
“Yes,” McKean said. “Ate every last bit of meat off both bodies. I read it in the report.” McKean spoke coolly and clinically, as was his habit, but I was shocked.
“You mean, really ate them?”
McKean shrugged his bony shoulders. “Coyotes are opportunistic, any carrion is fair game to them.”
The sheriff nodded, looking grim. “Wasn’t much left but bones and clothes. Varmints scattered the leavings around quite a bit before anyone came and found them.”
I shuddered despite the heat. “But coyotes didn’t kill them, did they?”
“Never heard of such a thing,” Tanner replied. “Coyotes might kill some old lady’s little frou-frou dog, but full-grown men with shotguns? No way.”
“So how did the men die?”
The sheriff shrugged. “Not much to go on. Forensics didn’t come up with anything special. Coroner’s exam found no bullet holes, no knife marks, just coyote tooth scrapes. I suppose the victims coulda been gut-shot by someone but you’d expect “em to move and leave a blood trail. But the blood’s all in one spot. Two spots, that is, one for each of “em.” He pointed to the bloodstain on his right. “That’s Nate Swanson, according to DNA tests. Other was Nate’s nephew, Tad Swanson.”
“Wait a minute,” I interjected. “I thought the DNA evidence was in doubt.”
“Not for Nate and Tad,” Tanner replied. “Family gave blood for matching. Positive IDs on both stains. On the bones too, just so’s we could sort them out, you know, for burial.”
McKean bent and picked up a small pinkish-white pebble from the bloodstain that had been Nate Swanson. He held it between his lanky index finger and thumb and eyed it down his long straight, shepherd-dog nose for a moment and then handed it to Tanner. “Here,” he said. “This one was overlooked.”
Tanner held the bit of white in his open palm and studied it for a moment and then nodded. “Bone all right.”
“Left pisiform,” McKean said.
“Pisi-what?” Tanner asked.
“Pisiform,” McKean repeated. “A pea-shaped wrist
“Assuming they were cut off from the way they came in,” McKean observed, “then they’d have had nowhere to go, leaving them little choice but to die out in the open.”
“Like Custer’s last stand,” the sheriff remarked. “They probably covered each other’s backs, but it didn’t help. Whoever it was got ‘em anyway.’
“The coroner’s report mentioned shotguns,” McKean said.
“Each of ‘em had a shotgun,’ the sheriff said. ‘With birdshot rounds for duck hunting. Odd thing is, the guns weren’t stolen. They stayed right where they fell, one next to each bloodstain.’
“Had they been fired?” McKean asked.
“Yep, a buncha times. Nine shell casings on the ground from the one and seven from the other.”
“There’s quite a profusion of footprints here,” McKean observed, wandering to and fro like a bloodhound seeking a scent and following dusty tracks that crisscrossed the bloodstains. “Boot prints, shoe prints and, what are those, dog prints?”
“Dog or coyote,” Tanner replied. “Or both.”
McKean leaned his angular body to get a close look at a patch of dusty ground with a particularly heavy mixture of human and animal tracks. “Are any of these thought to be perpetrator footprints?” he asked.
“Not a one of ‘em,’ Tanner said. ‘Lots of tracks around here now, from the duck hunters that found them and the State Patrol Forensics Unit, but that’s one of the odd things about this case. There weren’t any human tracks here at all until the duck hunters showed up.’
“If not human tracks,” McKean remarked, “then what?”
“Just them coyote tracks. All over the place. A whole pack. Big pack.”
“What were they doing here?” I asked, half-guessing the answer.
“Eating,” Tanner answered disdainfully.
“Yes,” McKean said. “Ate every last bit of meat off both bodies. I read it in the report.” McKean spoke coolly and clinically, as was his habit, but I was shocked.
“You mean, really ate them?”
McKean shrugged his bony shoulders. “Coyotes are opportunistic, any carrion is fair game to them.”
The sheriff nodded, looking grim. “Wasn’t much left but bones and clothes. Varmints scattered the leavings around quite a bit before anyone came and found them.”
I shuddered despite the heat. “But coyotes didn’t kill them, did they?”
“Never heard of such a thing,” Tanner replied. “Coyotes might kill some old lady’s little frou-frou dog, but full-grown men with shotguns? No way.”
“So how did the men die?”
The sheriff shrugged. “Not much to go on. Forensics didn’t come up with anything special. Coroner’s exam found no bullet holes, no knife marks, just coyote tooth scrapes. I suppose the victims coulda been gut-shot by someone but you’d expect “em to move and leave a blood trail. But the blood’s all in one spot. Two spots, that is, one for each of “em.” He pointed to the bloodstain on his right. “That’s Nate Swanson, according to DNA tests. Other was Nate’s nephew, Tad Swanson.”
“Wait a minute,” I interjected. “I thought the DNA evidence was in doubt.”
“Not for Nate and Tad,” Tanner replied. “Family gave blood for matching. Positive IDs on both stains. On the bones too, just so’s we could sort them out, you know, for burial.”
McKean bent and picked up a small pinkish-white pebble from the bloodstain that had been Nate Swanson. He held it between his lanky index finger and thumb and eyed it down his long straight, shepherd-dog nose for a moment and then handed it to Tanner. “Here,” he said. “This one was overlooked.”
Tanner held the bit of white in his open palm and studied it for a moment and then nodded. “Bone all right.”
“Left pisiform,” McKean said.
“Pisi-what?” Tanner asked.
“Pisiform,” McKean repeated. “A pea-shaped wrist
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