Once in his office, Graves snapped on a bank of harsh lights and gestured toward the desk. "Maybe if you told me specifically what you're looking for I could save you some time." The office was in stark contrast to the dimly lit great room in its clinical whiteness.

"I'm not exactly sure what I'm looking for yet," Joe said, hedging, his eyes still adjusting to the brightness of the room. "I'd like to read over the reports first and then see if I have any questions. Is that all right?"

"You told me on the phone it was urgent," Graves said impatiently.

Caught, Joe felt himself flush. "Sorry. It's something Sheriff Tassell told me the other night. He said that when Will shot himself, the kick of the gun drove the front sight into the top of his mouth."

Graves nodded. "Yes, it knocked out the victim's front two teeth as well. A handgun of that caliber has an enormous kick to it when it's fired."

"Is the weapon Will used in there?" Joe asked, pointing to the box.

Graves crossed in front of Joe and pulled out a large plastic bag and handed it to Joe. The.44 Magnum was huge and heavy, with a ten-inch barrel. Graves fingered the sharp front sight through the plastic with his long, white fingers. "You can see how it could happen," he said. Joe noticed that the blade of the front sight was rust-colored with dried blood.

"Yes," Joe said, hesitating. "Do you mind if I look through the files?"

"I'm not sure what your intention is here, and I hope you're not just fishing," Graves sighed. "Please don't take all night, Mr. Pickett. As you can see, I have a guest."

Joe nodded.

"There are some photos in the file that might be disturbing to you," Graves said. "I want to warn you-they're very graphic."

"I understand."

"Everybody always says that," Graves said, his smile revealing crooked beige teeth, "until they actually look at them."

Joe heard Graves pad back down the hallway, and heard the music increase in volume. Graves didn't want conversation from the great room to be overheard, Joe guessed. He opened the file and read the report. It was as Tassell had described. The only item that Joe wondered about were the notes saying that no toxicology report or autopsy was recommended.

Even though he thought he was prepared, the photos shocked Joe, just as Graves had warned. Will was slumped back in the hardback chair, his long legs splayed out underneath the table. His neck was white and exposed, his bloodied chin tilted up. Both arms hung straight down. The.44 Magnum was on the floor near his right hand. In the background, the entire kitchen wall and what could be seen of the ceiling were spattered with blood, brains, bits of white bone, and hair. Joe felt an urge to get sick, and looked around the office for water to drink. He found a paper cup near the sink and filled it, noticing that his hand was trembling.

Taking a deep breath he returned to the desk and forced himself to look at the other photos. Will's body had been photographed from all angles. A particularly disturbing photograph was taken from behind Will, where the back of his skull was shot away. In another, a close-up of Will's mouth clearly showed the wound in the palate caused by the front sight, the two front teeth hanging from the upper gum by thin strings.

"God help me get through this," Joe whispered to himself.

He waited until he was sure he wouldn't get sick before he went to find the medical examiner. He purposely clumped his boots on the tile louder than necessary as he walked down the dark hallway to the great room, making sure he could be heard.

Graves was turned toward the cowboy on the couch, large crystal goblets of red wine on the table in front of them. Again, the cowboy wouldn't look at Joe.

"Dr. Graves, may I ask you a few questions?"

Graves looked annoyed. Then he sighed, stood, and followed Joe back into the office.

"Why wasn't there a toxicology report or an autopsy?" Joe asked.

Graves cinched his robe tight before answering. "There simply wasn't any reason for it," he said. "It was obvious that the cause of death was a self-inflicted gunshot to the head. We don't do autopsies as a matter of course unless we have a reason. We know he didn't die of a heart attack, Mr. Pickett. We're like any other medical examiner's office in the country in that respect."

"So we don't know if Will was drunk, or sick?"

Graves shook his head. "No."

"Is there any way to find that out now?"

The ME looked at Joe quizzically. "I'm sure there isn't, since the body was cremated. What are you driving at?"

"I want to know why he did it," Joe said.

Graves sighed. "Look, I'm sympathetic. But my job isn't to try to determine whya victim takes his life. My job is to determine howit happened, and give my professional opinion as to cause of death. You seem to be looking for something I just can't help you with."

Joe rubbed his jaw and thought about it. He had watched Graves carefully as he spoke, looking for a false note, but hadn't seen or heard one.

"Now, if you've looked at everything you wanted to look at…" Graves said, not needing to finish his sentence.

"Right," Joe said, getting his jacket.

Graves was standing at the office door waiting to show Joe out into the hallway when Joe suddenly stopped and picked up the gun in the bag.

"You can't take that," Graves said.

"I don't want it," Joe said, smiling. "I couldn't hit anything with it, anyway. But a question just occurred to me."

Graves arched his eyebrows.

Joe sat back down in the chair and grasped the handgrip through the plastic. He extended his arm, pointed the revolver at the wall, then bent his elbow and wrist and turned the gun back toward himself so the muzzle of the revolver was a few inches from his face.

"Mr. Pickett, what are you doing?" Graves cautioned, stepping back into the hallway and peering around the doorjamb. "That gun is still loaded."

Joe said, "Look how long the barrel is on this gun. I can barely reach my mouth with it like this, the barrel is so long. This is also a heavy weapon, and it's real uncomfortable to hold it this way. When you go to fire a gun of this caliber, you really need to brace yourself and lock your arms when you fire, or it'll kick right out of your hand. From this position, if I pulled the trigger the bullet would go through the base of my skull straight into the wall behind me and the gun would probably flip out of my hand across the room."

"Yes … but the bullet was lodged in the ceiling."

"Right," Joe said. "That's what puzzles me."

Graves said nothing.

"But if I turn it like this"-Joe brought his arm down against his chest and turned the gun upside down and aimed upward-"it would be much easier." He bent his head forward as if to sip from a straw, and the muzzle touched his lips through the thin sheet of plastic. "See what I mean?"

"Yes, I see your point," Graves said. "But I'd be more comfortable if you put the gun down on the desk."

Joe ignored the ME's request. "If I pulled the trigger with the gun in this position, the bullet would go straight up through my brain into the ceiling. It's braced well enough against me that my body would absorb the kick, and the gun would probably drop away to the floor."