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his ego up, so to speak.’’
    ‘‘He seems to have had a shotgun,’’ said Hester. ‘‘Did he usually go armed?’’
    I looked at her. ‘‘Never, as far as I know.’’
    ‘‘And a small water pump, and a battery, and some hose,’’ she said.
    ‘‘That time of year,’’ said Dahl. He was right there. The little pile of equipment would be used to pump water from a little stream up into the patch.
    ‘‘Seems to me,’’ I said, looking back down at the remains, ‘‘that Turd here’s got a girlfriend . . . lives with her, in Freiberg.’’ Freiberg was about five miles from Basil State Park. Right on the Mississippi River. ‘‘Give me a while, I’ll think of her name.’’
    I stared at Howie, then took out my camera and snapped a couple of shots. I put my camera back, and said, to nobody in particular, ‘‘That was a pretty powerful rifle.’’
    ‘‘We have over fifty 7.62 mm casings, about thirty 5.56 mm casings, and probably a lot more to come. In four different locations so far,’’ said Hester.
    I digested that for a moment. ‘‘Those little white boxes I see everywhere?’’ She nodded. ‘‘Two different calibers?’’ Again, a nod. ‘‘No shotgun shells?’’ She shook her head. Four locations.
    ‘‘So the dead doper had a couple of friends our guys didn’t see? Not till it was too late?’’ I was just speculating.
    Silence.
    ‘‘Agent Dahl?’’
    ‘‘I don’t know. It sure looks that way, though.’’
    ‘‘Hester?’’
    ‘‘Looks like it.’’ She shrugged. ‘‘Maybe.’’
    ‘‘If that’s what it is,’’ I said, ‘‘we’re lookin’ for at least two people. Do we know which casings are from our guys?’’
    ‘‘Not yet,’’ said Hester. ‘‘I’d bet on three people myself. However, there’s one bunch of 5.56 rounds, maybe five to ten of ’em, in that general area.’’ She pointed to some heavy underbrush down near Kellerman’s body. ‘‘Those are probably officers’ rounds.’’
    ‘‘Okay . . .’’ I turned to Dahl. ‘‘Just how big is this patch, anyway?’’
    He looked at me, deciding. ‘‘Hundred six plants. Sinsemilla.’’
    That gave me pause. ‘‘That was grown here back in the middle eighties. DEA said it couldn’t be done in this climate.’’ I smiled. ‘‘Iowa farm boys can grow just about anything on a slab of concrete. Kind of makes you proud.’’
    I’d been squatting down, and stood up slowly. My back acts up on occasion, and I don’t like to push my luck. I looked the area over again, sweat dripping down from my forehead. I swiped at it with my gloved hand, so it only moved around. I peeled the glove off, and brushed my forehead with the back of my hand. The glove was dripping. High humidity.
    Hester handed me a small cloth. ‘‘You’ve got powder from your glove all over your forehead.’’
    ‘‘Thanks, Hester.’’ I looked at both her and Dahl. ‘‘Thing is, I can’t really see Turd havin’ this kind of patch. I mean, both quality and quantity. He isn’t . . . wasn’t bright enough to tend it properly. That stuff takes a lot of attention, doesn’t it?’’ Dahl nodded. ‘‘Let alone afford it,’’ I finished up.
    Alan Hummel, the special agent in charge of the DCI in our area, chose that moment to come up.
    ‘‘Hello, Carl.’’
    ‘‘Hi, Al.’’
    ‘‘Bad business.’’ Al was always brief like that. He’s been a cop for twenty-some years, all of it with the state. He’s a very good investigator, but it was our misfortune that he got promoted once too often. He was now an administrator. I would much rather have had him actively investigating on this one. He’d known Bill.
    ‘‘Yeah.’’ I looked him right in the eye. ‘‘You think we have a drug war here?’’
    ‘‘I don’t know.’’ He hesitated just a moment, and then did exactly the right thing. ‘‘I’ll get a meeting set, DNE, us, you, DEA, and FBI. We’ll find out.’’
    ‘‘FBI?’’ I