Hopefully, yes. Adam said, “A metate?”

“Handheld grinding stone.”

“Did you recover a weapon?”

“No,” Rob said. “We think he used one of the knives in the museum. A display case was smashed open, and it looks like one of the knives is missing.”

“Do you know time of death yet?”

“Not yet. Just that she died sometime during the night. She was found a little after nine o’clock yesterday morning.” McLellan said, “Pete Abrams was delivering propane to the Josephs. He saw the museum door standing open and went inside. He found Cynthia.” The lines on her face grew more pronounced. “Our killer dropped her body on one of those displays—”

She looked at Rob who answered, “Diorama.”

“That’s right. It was a funeral display. Well, the Modocs cremated their dead so it was supposed to show the body being prepared for the ceremony.”

Rob said, “He dumped her body on the funeral pyre.”

Adam said thoughtfully, “Hm. He didn’t light the pyre.”

“Jesus,” Rob muttered.

Adam asked, “Was there a mannequin in the display? What happened to it?”

“No. No mannequin.” McLellan was watching him as though awaiting some grand pronouncement. He didn’t have a pronouncement for her. Initial observation maybe. Nothing they wouldn’t have noticed themselves: that it had been a crime of opportunity, and that they were dealing with someone likely both deranged and disorganized.

McLellan said, “Cynthia and her daughter lived next door to the museum. Back in October someone tried to break into the museum, and Cynthia scared them away. We think that may have happened again.”

“Only they didn’t scare this time,” Rob said.

Adam asked, “What’s so valuable in that museum?”

“Nothing.” McLellan met his gaze and repeated, “Nothing. No precious metals, no gemstones. There are a couple of stuffed animals displays—dioramas—a few maps, a lot of information about nature and the woods. And there’s a collection of Modoc antiquities that belonged to Cynthia’s family. Bowls and baskets. Costumes and beads and feathers. She donated the lot to the Park Service when she married Henry.”

“Henry?”

“Henry Joseph. Henry and Cynthia were both park rangers. Henry died five years ago. Cynthia stayed on as a tour guide and the museum curator.”

“You said there’s a daughter?” Adam questioned.

“Tiffany. Aged seventeen. She’s staying with friends in Klamath Falls this weekend.”

“You said you believe a knife was taken from a display case. Was anything else taken from the museum?”

Rob said, “That’s what we’re trying to determine. It looked like maybe a couple of items have been removed. Cynthia may have pulled them for her own reasons. We’re hoping Tiffany can shed some light on that.”

Adam said slowly, “You haven’t spoken to her yet?”

“We’re working on it. She didn’t go to school yesterday, and we don’t know the last name of the friend she was staying with. Aggie’s tracking her down now.”

Not good. In fact, suspicious. Although the previous attempt at a break-in did offer an alternative scenario. A preferable scenario.

Adam shuffled through the photos, considering the possibilities. He said finally, “I’d like to walk the crime scene if that’s all right?”

“Sure. That’s the idea. Rob will do the honors,” McLellan said wearily.

Rob rose at once, removed his jacket from a hook on the wall, and pulled it on. “Let’s do it,” he said.

In silence, they left the sheriff’s office, walked around the corner of the building, and climbed into a white SUV with the official green and gold Sheriff’s Office insignia. The snow had turned to a slushy rain. The interior of the vehicle was cold. Adam could smell Rob’s aftershave—that blend of green citrus and sequoia—and he was disconcerted at how familiar it seemed.

Given that he hadn’t had anything but solo sex since the night with Rob, it was probably a Pavlovian response.

“So. How’ve you been?” Rob’s gaze was on the rearview mirror as he reversed, the wide tires leaving deep tracks in the snowy mud and gravel. “How’s your Roadside Ripper doing?”

As a matter of fact, the Ripper had been taking it easy lately. Nearly five months since his last kill. Not his longest cooling off period. That had been six months. Long enough to make you hope he’d finally picked up the wrong guy. Not that you were supposed to hope for that. The aim was always to catch the offender.

“Good. Busy,” Adam said. “Sorry we’re meeting again under these circumstances.”

Rob’s laugh was short. “Are there any other circumstances we would have met under?”

Well, no.

“Did you know the victim?”

“Yep.” It was a flat smack of a word. “Everybody knows everybody in Nearby. Cynthia wasn’t just ‘the victim’ to people around here.”

“I realize that.”

“No, you don’t.” Rob threw him a hard, white smile. “This is personal for us. For you, it’s just another case. Not that we don’t appreciate the expertise you bring. I don’t doubt you’d rather be working on your high profile taskforce.”

“You’d be surprised.”

Rob’s gaze slid sideways. The windshield wipers beat out a few moments of silence before he said—sounding more friendly, “You got a new partner?”

“God help me.” Adam hadn’t meant to say that aloud, but when Rob laughed, he laughed too. Still. Not professional. Adam asked, “Did you ever find out the identity of your logging road John Doe?”

Rob half lifted a hand from the steering wheel in absent greeting as they passed a couple of elderly men in cowboy hats. “Yes, we sure did.” His grin was mocking. “Surprised?”

He was, yes. It wouldn’t be diplomatic to say so. “He was local?”

“Yes. Dove Koletar. According to local legend, the only other gay man to ever live in Nearby. His parents used to own the campground cabins by the lake. He left for the big city thirty years ago. Left a goodbye forever note and everything.”

“A hate crime?” Adam asked. If that was the case, there was a good chance Koletar had been killed by someone local. Maybe even someone still living in Nearby. Thirty years was a long time, but it wasn’t a lifetime.

“That, we’ll probably never know. Koletar was the invisible man. Nobody remembers anything about him. Even his own mother forgot about him.”

“Everybody copes in their own way.”

Rob made a noncommittal sound.

They had left the brief stretch of small businesses that made up the village proper and were picking up speed as they headed toward the national forest. Despite the sleety rain, the snow was sticking, glazing the ground and powdering the trees. Behind walls of fir and pines, Adam glimpsed the roofs and windows of large, expensive homes.

“What’s the year round population up here?”

“A little over fifteen hundred. It’s shrinking steadily. During the summer season we see over a hundred thousand visitors annually.”

“What?”

Rob laughed at his expression. “Not all the same week luckily.”

“One hundred thousand visitors?”

“This is a very popular recreation spot in Southern Oregon.”

“This is? What the hell do they do here?”

Rob was clearly amused at his ignorance. “Hiking, biking, and horseback riding. Among other things. People come here to swim, fish, canoe, water ski. You name it. If it can be done in water, they do it. And a lot of winters we get them ice fishing. Not this year. This is warm winter.”

“It is?” Adam doubtfully eyed the windshield wipers briskly beating back the fall of fat, icy raindrops.

“Yep. Very warm.”

They were only about five minutes out of the village when the SUV slowed and Rob turned off the main highway. The road was still paved, though the asphalt was wearing thin. The SUV hit a couple of teeth-rattling potholes in quick succession.

Rob said, “There’s the museum up ahead.”

The museum was an A-framed log cabin which sat in a clearing surrounded by deep forest. Two wickiups sat to one side of the main structure. The main building was constructed of wood that shone almost golden in the dreary light. Window frames, door, and steps were all painted in bright primary colors and adorned with Native American symbols.