"Yes."

"But as you can see, the front sight is pointed down in this position, toward my lower lip, not my upper palate."

Graves nodded.

Joe looked up. "So how is it that Will killed himself with this gun using such an awkward, uncomfortable position like I showed you a minute ago? Or that the bullet was lodged in the ceiling, not the wall? And why is it that the gun fired with such force that it cut his mouth and knocked his teeth out, but then fell to the floor beside him and wasn't thrown clear across the table?"

He put the gun down and Dr. Graves stepped back into the room.

"I don't think I can answer those questions," the ME said.

"Neither can I," Joe admitted.

"So what are you driving at?"

"Was the gun dusted for prints?"

"Yes. You can see there is still some powder residue on it. Will's fingerprints, and only his fingerprints, were all over the barrel and the cylinder."

Joe examined the gun and saw the powder gathered in folds of the plastic. "What about the handgrip and the trigger?"

Graves cleared his throat. "We found no fingerprints on either."

"At all?"

The ME nodded.

"So the gun had been wiped clean?"

"I didn't say that," Graves said. "The surface of the trigger itself is grooved, so it wouldn't hold a print. The handgrip is checkered wood, which isn't a good surface for lifting latents."

"But it couldhave been wiped clean?"

"It's possible," Graves said. "But there's no way to prove it. I wouldn't testify that the gun had been wiped clean."

Joe sat back. "Are these questions enough to reclassify this case as a possible homicide?"

The doctor set his jaw. "No, no. I think I need more than that. But let me give it some thought."

TWENTY-FOUR

Joe was at his desk early Wednesday morning after breakfast at the Sportsman's Cafe, and again there was something wrong with his head. He had not slept through the night because when he closed his eyes the ceiling spun and random images hurtled down at him: the crime-scene photos, the bear's eyes as they locked on him and he froze, Stella Ennis with parted lips and a flash of teeth. Now, he couldn't seem to concentrate on the paperwork in front of him. Lines on the topo map blurred into one another, and the list of outfitter names, camps, and locations bled together into a blob. Not even four cups of coffee could cut through the fog.

It was an hour before the office opened. He had arrived well before, when it was still dark out, because he couldn't sleep. After looking at his face in the mirror in the office bathroom-he swore there was something wrong with his eyes-he watched the sun paint the Tetons electric pink. It was otherworldly, and matched his mood.

Joe had torn the office apart looking everywhere for the missing notebook. There was nothing behind the file cabinets, and nothing had slipped between the hanging files. He had removed the desk drawers and looked inside the desk, finding only a gum wrapper. It was clean beneath the desk blotter, and there was nothing taped up behind the map or bulletin board.

When he had arrived that morning there was an envelope on his desk with his name on it in elegant script. Since there was no stamp or postmark, it had apparently been hand-delivered. He pulled out a large card and reread it. It was an invitation to a reception on Saturday night for the vice president of the United States, at the home of Don and Stella Ennis in Beargrass Village. Jeez,Joe thought, the vice president!

On the bottom of the invitation, beneath the RSVR was written: If you wear your red uniform shirt I'll know you want to talk. If you don't, I'll leave you alone. But you ARE coming.It was signed "S."

Stella.

Joe imagined Marybeth's reaction when he told her about the party. It would be hard to convince her he wasn't having the time of his life without her.

Later, he checked his wristwatch, trying to anticipate when Marybeth might wake up at home. He hadn't called the night before because when he returned from Dr. Graves's it was after midnight. Dead tired, his dinner was a can of spaghetti and a bourbon and water. He wanted to tell her what he had learned about the crime scene and find out her impressions. She often thought of angles he hadn't considered.

Then he wanted to talk to Mary, maybe get her to tell him something about Will Jensen before taking the horses north to the trailhead to begin a four- or five-day pack trip into the wilderness to check the outfitter camps. He had not forgotten about Smoke Van Horn, who seemed to have a professional interest in when Joe would hit the backcountry.

Joe had not announced his intentions to anyone, and would tell only Mary and Marybeth, and go.

If there was anything that might clear his head, it was several days alone in the mountains. He intended to use the days not only to do his duty at the camps, but to think through what he had learned about Will Jensen's death since arriving in Jackson.

Because I sure can't focus on anything here,he thought. He considered seeing a doctor, but didn't know one in Jackson and wasn't sure how much his insurance would cover. If he continued to have nights like the one he had just had, he vowed, he would get a checkup when he got back.

As Joe reached for the phone to call his wife, it rang. Sheriff Tassell sounded angry and told Joe that he was calling from his car and hadn't even made it into the office yet. Joe was annoyed as well, having another call to Marybeth aborted before it had begun.

"Graves said you think somebody might have killed Will Jensen," Tassell said.

"I was speculating-"

"Damnit, this is exactly what I was warned about you," Tassell said. "You agreed to keep me informed."

"I didn't get in last night until after midnight," Joe said. "Did you want me to call you then?"

"Why not?" Tassell asked. "Graves sure as hell did."

"What did he tell you?"

"He said we ought to consider hiring a big-name forensics expert to look at the photos."

"So he thinks there's something there?" Joe asked, a little surprised. He had assumed, incorrectly, that Graves was as anxious to put the death behind him as Tassell seemed to be.

"He's not sure," Tassell said. "But he made that suggestion. Dumped it in my lap, actually. Of course, the cost for that kind of expert wouldn't come out of hisbudget."

Joe grinned sourly. "So that's what this is about, huh? Maybe the state DCI would-"

"I don't want the state involved, coming in here after the fact," Tassell said impatiently. "Not based on a couple of photos and the fact that you thought the gun was uncomfortable to hold in a certain position. Jesus, why would a guy so strung out that he wanted to commit suicide even care if he was uncomfortableat the last second of his life?"

"It just doesn't fit," Joe said.

"Is that a reason to raise the issue? Unless we've got more than that, I can't spend our money for a high-priced outside expert."

"Don't you want to be sure?" Joe asked.

Tassell said, "Don't put that on me, Joe. You're as bad as Graves."

"You're the sheriff," Joe said. "It's your decision."

Tassell moaned and cursed. "Okay, I'll give it some thought. Those photos aren't going anywhere. Maybe once we get the VP out of town and I know where our budget is-"