The Blackbird Papers by Ian Smith Page A

Sterling said. He pushed back from the table. “What is it?”
    “There's no way to put this easy, Agent Bledsoe. But we found him.”
    “Wilson? Dead or alive?”
    “He's been murdered.”
    Sterling heard the words, but they didn't register. “Is he alive, Lieutenant?”
    “I'm sorry. He's dead.” There was a long silence before Wiley spoke again. “Are you there, Agent?”
    “Where is he?” Sterling said.
    “In a wooded area off River Road.”
    “I'm on my way.”
    ———
    A s Sterling raced down River Road he heard the buzz of a chopper overhead, but he couldn't see it through the heavy trees. He ignored a sharp curve, skimming hedges and branches that crawled onto the road. He slammed on the brakes when he reached the flurry of activity. The cordoned-off area was much different from when he had left it a couple of hours ago. Hordes of uniformed men wearing different colored jackets scrambled around like rats in a maze. Anxious dogs barked and strained at their leashes, and at least twenty marked and unmarked cars were haphazardly strewn along the road. The army of bright lights swirling atop the cruisers only added to the chaos, giving it a carnival-like atmosphere. Sterling took a few moments to observe the pandemonium. Some officers screamed into walkie-talkies while others yelled at each other, not in anger but in confusion.
    Sterling approached the yellow tape. Two state troopers stood guard with their bulky arms folded across their chests. Twin sentries. “Sir, this is a sealed-off crime scene,” one of them said. “Please vacate the premises and move your car.”
    The words “crime scene” ripped through Sterling's gut like a shotgun blast. He flipped his wallet open and flashed his tin, not bothering to waste words on them. He spotted Lieutenant Wiley in the middle of the chaos, barking orders to anyone who would listen. The two sentries moved aside and let Sterling pass.
    “How far away is he, Lieutenant?” Sterling asked when he was close enough for Wiley to hear him above the noise. He leaned onto a nearby cruiser to steady himself and inhaled deeply, hoping he could clear his head. Everything seemed to be moving in slow motion.
    “About three hundred yards from here,” Wiley said. “He was just outside an old barn up on the Potter property.”
    “When was he found?”
    “About twenty minutes ago. I called you as soon as I got the word. They're taking photographs and prints now.”
    “Which direction?” Sterling bit his lip hard to fight back the tears. He refused to believe that his only brother was dead until he saw the body himself.
    “I don't know if you want to go up there, Agent Bledsoe,” Wiley cautioned. “I'm not sure how bad it is.” Sterling's chin fell to his chest and he closed his eyes. Wiley stepped forward and placed a hand on his slumping shoulders. “Maybe you should let our men handle it from here.”
    “I'm going to see my brother, Lieutenant.” Sterling's voice was strong and full of anger. “Then I'm gonna figure out who the hell did this.”
    “Everyone's on board,” Wiley informed him. “State, the local departments from both towns, and some of your men from Boston are already up there.”
    “Did he struggle?” Sterling had to know.
    “I think so,” Wiley said, shaking his head. “His clothes were dirty and tattered. Blunt trauma to the side of his head.”
    Sterling looked along the side of the road through a slight clearing in the thick trees. He could see the calm rolling waters of the Connecticut River. A family of ducks floated down the current, the sun illuminating their brilliant green, black, and blue feathers. How could something so horrible happen here, a place of such natural serenity—no hustle and bustle like in the big city. His mind raced through scenes of his youth, when Wilson would come home from college and their mother would prepare his favorite meal. Wilson's wide smile had always brought her such pleasure. It was the smile