that Sterling had learned to hate.
Sterling allowed himself to get lost in the memories. They had always been a hardworking family. The academic success of the children had become the old man's pride, and he would boast about it to anyone willing to listen. Sterling remembered the warm glow that would light up his mother's face when the ladies at church asked how Wilson was doing in Chicago. They asked every Sunday morning, as if things might've changed one week to the next. In their small manufacturing town in western Pennsylvania, most of the children finished high school and then went to work in the factories and textile mills. It was a big deal to have a son off in college, then graduate school, and an even bigger deal that he was a scientist.
Wilson's Nobel came at a time when their parents' health was declining but good enough for them to make the trip to Sweden. That same glow returned to his mother's cheeks as Wilson accepted his award from King Carl XVI Gustaf. They'd died before he won the Devonshire, but they'd known that their small-town boys had turned out to be successful men of the world.
“Agent Bledsoe.” Lieutenant Wiley tapped Sterling on the shoulder. “Maybe you should let us clean things up a bit and identify him at the morgue.”
“No,” Sterling insisted. “I want to see him now.”
Wiley walked over to one of the cruisers and pulled out a fresh box of latex gloves. He led Sterling through the dense trees, stepping over fallen branches and walking around areas where the ground was wet and soft from the previous night's rain. They crossed a small ravine, then climbed their way up to the pond. A few minutes later they had reached the clearing that led to the back of the Potter property. Both men were breathing heavily by the time the barn came into view.
The chopper continued to make passes in the sky. A group of officers, too many for Sterling to count, huddled just outside the barn, their heads bent toward the ground like kids playing marbles. A flash from the photographer's camera popped every couple of seconds. Sterling took a series of deep breaths, hoping to untie the knot in his stomach. This was going to be the most difficult thing he had ever done.
The solemn voices grew quiet as he and Wiley approached.
“Gentlemen, this is Agent Sterling Bledsoe,” Wiley announced. “Brother of Professor Bledsoe.”
The men turned and nodded, but didn't say anything. Their faces were long and dark. Death had that kind of effect, even on grown men. They all moved back to give Sterling some private time. He was pleased that they stood behind him, making it impossible for them to see the tears in his eyes.
The dog that had found the body had finally settled down, though it occasionally let out a distressed yelp. Sterling took one last breath, then moved closer. The body hadn't been moved. Both shoes were untied, their soles packed with mud that still hadn't dried. Wilson's gray pants were covered with dirt marks and the right leg had a large tear in it.
The upper torso was naked, but there weren't any abrasions or fresh wounds on the back. Sterling looked at Wilson's waist and noticed the extra pounds he had put on in the last few months. His face was planted in the ground, but strangely the arms were extended above his head. His fingers had stiffened in a slightly curled position.
“Are you done with location and position photos?” he asked the photographer.
“I think we've got enough,” the photographer answered. He patted his vest pocket bulging with rolls of film.
A short, burly man approached. “I'm sorry, Sterling,” he said. His voice sounded like sandpaper dragged across a piece of rotted wood. His heavy black mustache drooped past the corners of his mouth and curled back in perfect loops. Sterling recognized Special Agent Lonnie Brusco right away. “I got in about an hour ago.” They pumped hands firmly. “You sure you don't wanna wait till we take him to the morgue? This
Sterling allowed himself to get lost in the memories. They had always been a hardworking family. The academic success of the children had become the old man's pride, and he would boast about it to anyone willing to listen. Sterling remembered the warm glow that would light up his mother's face when the ladies at church asked how Wilson was doing in Chicago. They asked every Sunday morning, as if things might've changed one week to the next. In their small manufacturing town in western Pennsylvania, most of the children finished high school and then went to work in the factories and textile mills. It was a big deal to have a son off in college, then graduate school, and an even bigger deal that he was a scientist.
Wilson's Nobel came at a time when their parents' health was declining but good enough for them to make the trip to Sweden. That same glow returned to his mother's cheeks as Wilson accepted his award from King Carl XVI Gustaf. They'd died before he won the Devonshire, but they'd known that their small-town boys had turned out to be successful men of the world.
“Agent Bledsoe.” Lieutenant Wiley tapped Sterling on the shoulder. “Maybe you should let us clean things up a bit and identify him at the morgue.”
“No,” Sterling insisted. “I want to see him now.”
Wiley walked over to one of the cruisers and pulled out a fresh box of latex gloves. He led Sterling through the dense trees, stepping over fallen branches and walking around areas where the ground was wet and soft from the previous night's rain. They crossed a small ravine, then climbed their way up to the pond. A few minutes later they had reached the clearing that led to the back of the Potter property. Both men were breathing heavily by the time the barn came into view.
The chopper continued to make passes in the sky. A group of officers, too many for Sterling to count, huddled just outside the barn, their heads bent toward the ground like kids playing marbles. A flash from the photographer's camera popped every couple of seconds. Sterling took a series of deep breaths, hoping to untie the knot in his stomach. This was going to be the most difficult thing he had ever done.
The solemn voices grew quiet as he and Wiley approached.
“Gentlemen, this is Agent Sterling Bledsoe,” Wiley announced. “Brother of Professor Bledsoe.”
The men turned and nodded, but didn't say anything. Their faces were long and dark. Death had that kind of effect, even on grown men. They all moved back to give Sterling some private time. He was pleased that they stood behind him, making it impossible for them to see the tears in his eyes.
The dog that had found the body had finally settled down, though it occasionally let out a distressed yelp. Sterling took one last breath, then moved closer. The body hadn't been moved. Both shoes were untied, their soles packed with mud that still hadn't dried. Wilson's gray pants were covered with dirt marks and the right leg had a large tear in it.
The upper torso was naked, but there weren't any abrasions or fresh wounds on the back. Sterling looked at Wilson's waist and noticed the extra pounds he had put on in the last few months. His face was planted in the ground, but strangely the arms were extended above his head. His fingers had stiffened in a slightly curled position.
“Are you done with location and position photos?” he asked the photographer.
“I think we've got enough,” the photographer answered. He patted his vest pocket bulging with rolls of film.
A short, burly man approached. “I'm sorry, Sterling,” he said. His voice sounded like sandpaper dragged across a piece of rotted wood. His heavy black mustache drooped past the corners of his mouth and curled back in perfect loops. Sterling recognized Special Agent Lonnie Brusco right away. “I got in about an hour ago.” They pumped hands firmly. “You sure you don't wanna wait till we take him to the morgue? This
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