9:07 p.m.

South of Nebraska City

'Holy crap!" Pakula said, taking his first look as Sheriff Dawes held open the kitchen door to the farmhouse. The flood of white fluorescent lights inside seemed a harsh contrast to the darkness outside.

The mobile crime techs had beaten him to the scene. Darcy Kennedy and Wes Howard had secured the kitchen, yet Pakula couldn't help wondering how many from the crowd in the front yard had already trampled through. The body was slumped in the hardback chair, the head rolled back, exposing the gaping wound in the neck, a violent slash of red against the biue-gray skin. It was probably exactly as it had been found. He wondered if the guy's wife had walked in this very door.

"What about the car?" he asked the sheriff, who stayed in the doorway. When Dawes didn't answer, Pakula glanced back at him and realized the sheriff hadn't stayed back in order to give them room to do their work, but because he looked as if he might upchuck. The man stood well over six feet, tall and skinny, teetering back and forth on the heels of his pointed-toed cowboy boots. "Sheriff Dawes, where's the Saab?"

"Oh, it's still in the garage. Nobody's touched it. Keys are in the ignition." He seemed relieved to have something to concentrate on. "State Patrol told me they'd have roadblocks from here to Kansas City. There's an APB out for the Chevy. We'll get the bastards. Maybe before morning."

Pakula hated to discourage the sheriff's optimism. If that Chevy already had an entirely different set of license plates on it, they might slip through the roadblocks.

"You pulling a double shift, Wes?" Pakula walked a wide circle around the corpse, careful not to interrupt the techs' grid.

"I could ask the same about you." The kid smiled but didn't take his eyes from the fingerprint he was making appear on the counter next to the bloody butcher knife that had been bagged.

"Why bother tying the guy up? And why do you suppose he used a knife?" Pakula started asking questions out loud as he sorted the pieces.

"He wasn't out of bullets," Sheriff Dawes said from his sanctuary. "He used one on the gas station clerk up the road."

"And that's where you might think he'd want to keep quiet instead of risking someone hearing the gunshot." Pakula squatted in front of the corpse so he could be eye level with the wound. "Yet out here, where nobody can hear it, he uses a knife."

"Is he making a statement of some kind?" Darcy asked.

"You tell me." He stood up, rubbing his eyes and wishing this kitchen wasn't so fucking bright.

Darcy pointed to the gash that started up under the left earlobe. "He did it from behind, left to right, so he's right-handed. No big surprise there. There was a lot more force than needed, practically decapitated the guy. Definite overkill. The kind of stuff you'd find in a crime of passion. But I'm thinking he didn't know this guy."

"Maybe he reminded him of someone." Pakula looked around the kitchen as if searching for answers. "Anything else taken?"

"Wife's pretty upset," Sheriff Dawes said. "I didn't ask."

"Looks like his wallet is still in his back pocket," Wes pointed out.

From this angle Pakula decided it wasn't possible that the cash and credit cards were removed and the wallet replaced. He had started a credit card check on all of Andrew's cards. By morning he'd have the information. Sometimes they got lucky. Sometimes the kidnappers were stupid enough to charge hotel rooms. Pakula was still hoping these guys were stupid enough.

"When will we have fingerprint results from the Saturn and here?"

"There's too many prints in the car to isolate," Darcy explained. "I can't tell which ones might be the robbers' and which ones are probably the previous occupants'. We did find a thumb and forefinger inside the car's back window. I'm guessing it's got to be one of theirs. Because there's vomit smudges. I'm running it for a match but haven't come up with anything else. Might be someone who's never been in the system."

"How 'bout here? Anything?"

"We should have him right here," Wes said, holding up the plastic bag with the butcher knife. "The son of a bitch didn't bother even wiping it."