“Chief?”

I glance behind me to see the coroner approach, sliding a little in the mud as he comes down the slope from the front of the house. He’s eyeing me as if it’s my fault he’s out tromping around in such inhospitable weather and he’s holding me personally responsible. His eyes slide toward the life preserver–clad firefighters as he starts toward us.

“I wish people would choose better weather in which to die,” he grumbles as he reaches us.

Skid chuckles into his coffee.

The doc doesn’t smile. “Any idea who it is?”

“I think it’s the homeowner, Jerrold McCullough,” I tell him.

“Chief!” The nearest firefighter looks over his shoulder at me. “You might want to see this.”

Skid lowers the cup from his mouth and looks at me. “You want me to go, Chief?”

“I got it.” I cross to the water’s edge, where the two firefighters, both of whom have safety tethers attached to their life vests, are standing in hip-deep water. “What is it?”

“This guy didn’t just fall off the deck and get tangled in that rope,” he shouts to be heard above the roar of the water. “His hands are bound.”

In light of the other two murders, I shouldn’t be surprised, but there’s always something intrinsically shocking about murder. “He’s tied to the deck?”

“Looks like.”

The deck seems to be shielding them from the worst of the current. Still, it’s a dangerous retrieval. Without those tethers, one slip could send a man into the water, where even the strongest swimmer would be swept downstream.

A third rescuer approaches me with an orange life vest. “Here you go, Chief.”

All I can think as I put my arms through the straps is that I don’t want to go into that swirling, dark water. The firefighter doesn’t seem to notice my trepidation as he produces a black nylon tether strap and clips it to my vest with a carabiner.

The firefighter in the water looks over his shoulder at me. “I’ve never seen anything like this.”

At the bank, I look back at Skid. “Grab the camera, will you?”

Nodding, he starts up the incline toward his cruiser.

Trying not to slip in the mud, I enter the water. Cold creeps over the tops of my boots and grips my feet with icy hands that streak up my legs with enough force to chill my entire body. No one had any spare wader boots, so I’m destined to go through the day with wet feet. Another step takes me into a foot of swirling brown water. Even though it’s shallow, the current tugs at me, like a child pulling on my pant leg to get my attention.

I’m about four feet downstream from the deck. Tea-colored water rushes around the wood piers. The two firefighters are taking the brunt of the current; I can see it washing around their legs. One of the men has looped a rope around the nearest pier and is using it to hold on to.

Water inches over my knees and slaps against my thighs as I wade closer to the deck. When the farthest firefighter steps aside, I get my first good look at the body. I see a blue-white face with cloudy eyes. A gray strip of what looks like duct tape over the mouth. Hair flowing like some exotic fish fin just below the surface. The victim is wearing a white tank undershirt and blue jeans that have been nearly pulled from his body by the force of the water. Bare feet. My eyes seek out his hands, but they’re bound behind his back, cotton rope whipping with the current.

“See that?” The firefighter points. “Hands are tied. Looks like duct tape over his mouth and wrapped around his head. I thought you might want to see it before we cut him loose.”

“Let me get a few shots,” I tell him.

Gripping the tether with my left hand, I wade back to the shore. “Skid!”

He places the camera in my palm. Wrapping the strap around my wrist, hoping I don’t fall and ruin it, I work my way back out to the body. I stop two feet away, brace my feet against the pull of the water, and start snapping photos. It’s difficult to make out the details because of the murkiness and glare. The raging current is whipping the body back and forth with such force that I hear it striking the deck’s pier.

I leave the water and shoot a dozen more photos from different angles as the firefighters cut the body loose. The rope drags behind them like a dead snake as they carry the victim to shore. Doc Coblentz and a young female technician, who’s staring at the body as if she’s expecting it to turn into a zombie at any moment, spreads a black zippered body bag on grass that’s been pulverized to mud. The firefighters lay the victim in a supine position atop the vinyl.

When the two men step away, I move closer and look down at the body. The face is discolored and swollen, but not so much that I don’t recognize him. “It’s Jerrold McCullough,” I say.

One of the rescuers comes up beside me. “Looks like he’s been submerged awhile,” he says as he removes his life vest.

I look at Doc Coblentz. “Any idea how long?”

The doc shakes his head. “Skin hasn’t begun to slough. Not much in the way of bloating. If I had to guess, I’d say less than twenty-four hours. I’ll get a liver temp once I get him to the morgue.”

Skid’s gaze snags mine. “That means he was there last night when you and Glock were here, looking for him.”

“The water hadn’t yet reached the deck,” I say. “If he was alive and conscious, he heard us.”

“Kate, look at his knees.” The coroner glances up at me from where he’s kneeling next to the body.

I kneel beside him and watch as he indicates holes in the man’s trousers at both knees. Using scissors, he cuts away the wet fabric and reveals neat round bullet holes in both knees. “Looks like gunshot wounds,” he says.

“Holy shit,” Skid mutters from somewhere behind me.

The doc studies the wounds. “I won’t be sure until I get X-rays, but it looks like on the left knee, the bullet hit the patella. On the right, it looks as if it penetrated the soft tissue between the patella and tibia.”

“Was he alive when he was shot?” I ask.

“There’s bruising. Swelling. I would say yes, he was alive when he sustained those two wounds.”

I look down at the body and try not to wince at the images prying into my brain. “Doc, can you cut away that duct tape?”

Using surgical-grade scissors, the coroner cuts the duct tape and peels it away. I work an evidence bag from my belt and hold it out. He drops the length of tape into the bag.

McCullough’s mouth is open. I see blue lips and yellowed teeth. A small dark object at the back of his throat. “There’s something in his mouth,” I say.

“Some kind of foreign object.” The doc looks over his shoulder at the technician. “Hand me those pliers.”

The technician passes the instrument to the doc. We watch in silence as the doc inserts the pincers and pulls out the Amish peg doll. “Just like the others,” he says.

From behind me, Skid hands him another evidence bag and the doc drops it inside.

I hand the camera to Skid. “Get some photos of that, will you?”

“Yep.”

The doc continues with his preliminary exam. “No irregularities in the clothing,” he says.

Steeling myself against the ghastliness of the body, I kneel for a closer look. “Wrists are scored.”

“At some point, he was conscious and struggled,” the doc says. “From the looks of that bruising and the abrasions, probably for quite some time.”

I look toward the deck and try not to imagine the panic and terror Jerrold McCullough endured before his death. The killer had crippled him. Bound him. Gagged with the peg doll stuffed into his throat. Then he’d tied him to the pier, struggling, until the rising water had drowned him.

“This was personal,” I say to no one in particular. “Someone wanted him to suffer.”

“I’d say they succeeded,” the doc mutters.

I make eye contact with Skid and we move away from the doc and firefighters. Out of earshot, I tell him, “I want you to pick up Blue Branson for questioning.”