It was rough terrain, and Brandon was grateful to have taken Luke’s advice about wearing boots. When they had to plow back and forth across a dry creek bed, street shoes would have instantly filled with sand. To begin with, carrying the bag wasn’t a problem, but it grew heavier as they went, with Suzanne charging ahead, keeping a stiff pace, and talking as she went.

“Earlier this morning, we had been combing both sides of the canyon,” she explained. “By the time we emerged from the canyon itself, it was right around noon and hot as hell. Looking for some shade, we ducked into a grove of mesquite, and that’s where we found him.”

“What are the chances you stumbled on an ancient burial ground that surfaced during a rainstorm?” Brandon huffed, doing his best to keep up.

“It’s not an ‘ancient burial ground,’ ” Suzanne replied. “This guy had a wallet with a driver’s license in it. He’s also got gold fillings in his teeth.”

“You touched the wallet and the skull?” Brandon asked.

“Of course I touched it,” she said. “What do you think I am, some kind of sissy? Here we are, come on.”

Suzanne led the way into a grove of mesquite. Had the mesquite been left to its own devices, the branches would have grown low enough to touch the ground, but this was ranch land—­open range. Grazing cattle had trimmed the lower branches as far up as they could reach. As a result, Brandon was able to remain almost upright as he walked under the trees to where the remains of what would later be identified as Amos Warren lay scattered in dozens of pieces.

The sheltering trees were probably the reason so much of the body remained in one place rather than being spread farther afield. The scavengers who had devoured the decaying flesh had most likely been attracted to the site for that same reason. While there, they were protected from above by a canopy of branches. On the north side, the mountains kept it from view. To the south of the trees, a rugged ridge of what had likely once been molten lava had created a natural basin that, in the aftermath of rain, would create a natural water hole—­a charco—­that would provide moisture for the trees long after the monsoon season ended.

With thunder grumbling in the background, there wasn’t a moment to lose. Brandon made no effort to collect the bones. That wasn’t his job. Instead, he put down evidence markers, photographed the bones in situ, then went about the business of gathering evidence—­starting with the brittle remains of a leather wallet that contained a faded driver’s license years out-of-date and what appeared to be a perfect arrowhead.

If he was packing an arrowhead around as a good luck charm, Brandon mused to himself, it sure as hell didn’t work.

Brandon’s careful search unearthed a few other artifacts. He located a scattered circle of blackened rocks that had most likely once surrounded a campfire. On a long piece of desiccated bone that had once been a forearm, he found an intact watch—­a Timex. The hands, still visible behind the dirt-­crusted lens, read 2:35.

A few feet away Brandon found a dented canteen, empty but still covered with ragged bits of canvas. Near that he saw bits of tattered material that might have been a bedroll and what looked like the remains of a leather jacket. Not far from the jacket was another long bone, a rib this time. It had been gnawed along the edges, but through the bone itself was a small, perfectly semicircular hole. You didn’t need to be a medical examiner to read the signs. This was the mark from a small-­caliber weapon, but Brandon knew that at close range and with the right placement, a shot from a .22 can be every bit as deadly as a .45. Even years after the fact and with no additional evidence, he got the picture. Whoever this poor guy was, he hadn’t died of natural causes. Somebody, mad as hell, had nailed him with one shot and maybe more. This was a homicide.

Brandon was combing the ground in a hopeless search for spent bullets when Suzanne called him. “Hey,” she said, “over here.”

After snapping one last photo of the rib bone, Brandon hurried over to where Suzanne stood. Knowing this was a crime scene, he had donned a pair of gloves and had prevailed upon her to do the same. Looking where she was pointing, Brandon saw a second piece of bone, this one a long leg bone lying near the remains of what had once been a sturdy hiking boot. The boot was marred by grooves from the teeth of gnawing scavengers who had evidently felt protected enough in that grove of trees to dine in place rather than hauling their prizes off to a den.

“Coyotes?” Suzanne asked.

Taken aback that the woman didn’t appear to be the least bit squeamish, Brandon nodded before putting down another evidence marker and snapping the next photo. “Probably,” he said. “I’m guessing all we’ll find are the larger bones. Vultures will have carried off the smaller bits.”

“What’s going to happen now?” Suzanne asked.

“Once the M.E. does his autopsy and verifies how the victim died, we’ll need to find out who did this. Then,” Brandon added as the camera shutter clicked one last time, “we’re going to put the killer away.”

Suzanne said nothing, but Brandon looked up just in time to see her nod. At the same moment, a sharp crack of lightning and a roll of thunder announced the arrival of the long-­delayed storm. Struggling against torrential and almost blinding rain, they headed back to the cars. Long before they reached the vehicles, they were soaked through, and the M.E. van was nowhere in sight. A call to Dispatch told them that the M.E. had been forced to turn back on the far side of Redington Pass.

For the time being, there was nothing to do but wait. Then, in a move no one expected, the storm proceeded to stall directly over Redington Pass. Eventually the water in the washes to the south of them receded, while the ones to the north roared bank to bank. That night, the only way back home to Gates Pass was on I-­10 via Pomerene and Benson.

It was another two days before Redington Road was again passable. Driving a four-­wheel drive SUV, Brandon led the late-­arriving M.E. back to the crime scene. This time, with the aid of a metal detector, Brandon Walker searched the mesquite grove and managed to find and retrieve not one but two spent bullets. They were buried in dirt, otherwise pack rats would have carried them off long ago.

Among the bones the M.E. collected were three rib bones and a sternum that showed the victim had been shot at least three times in the chest. Because of the driver’s license they already suspected they knew the victim’s name, but it took far longer for dental records to confirm that this truly was Amos Warren, a man who had disappeared in 1970 and been declared missing in 1971. Not long after that, Brandon Walker had found himself hot on the trail of John Lassiter, arresting him and bringing him to justice.

As for Suzanne Holder? It was years before Brandon saw her again. By then he was no longer a homicide detective. He had run against Sheriff Jack DuShane and had won the race fair and square. It was sometime after that, probably during his second term in office, when his receptionist had called over the intercom to say that he had a visitor in the outer office, someone named Suzanne Holder, who wanted to see him.

At first Brandon couldn’t place the name, but as soon as she stepped into his private office, he recognized her as the woman from Amos Warren’s long-­ago crime scene. She was still freckle faced, but her long wind-­blown blond hair was cut in a fashionable bob. The hiking boots and jeans had been replaced by a suit and a pair of low pumps.

“My goodness,” he said as they shook hands. “It’s been years. How are you doing and what are you doing these days?”

“I’m in town for a meeting,” Suzanne said, “but I had to come by and say thank you.”