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seemed to catch him up in some kind of weird enthrallment—unless there were two of them—which Remy had considered more than once.
    “Voodoo?” Gage asked.
    Remy frowned and shrugged. He didn’t believe it was a voodoo altar, although certainly it appeared to be one. There were objects found in voodoo practice, but when he’d consulted Eulalie Chachere, a legitimate voodoo priestess, she had told him that the altar wasn’t right even for a black magic practitioner. Still, he would consult her again. She was an expert and if anyone could figure out what that altar meant, it would probably be her. Remy knew her and trusted her. “You’ll have to consult Eulalie. She worked with me before so she’s familiar with the crime scenes. She won’t disclose details. She can be trusted.”
    “I was hoping you’d work this case with me, Remy,” Gage admitted. “You’re the murder expert, not me. He’s not finished.”
    No, he wasn’t. Remy had an extra sense for such things even if he hadn’t seen the murderer’s work before. He would kill again and soon.
    Remy nodded. “I’ll talk to Eulalie. She’ll help us. I’ll need to talk to Saria and Bijou as well.” He sighed. The last thing he wanted to do was talk to Bijou about anything unpleasant. It had taken years to forgive himself for the way he’d handled her ugly childhood, and he’d hoped that if they crossed paths as adults they could both put it behind them.
    He forced himself to look at the body of his childhood friend. As long as he’d been the “vic” Remy could push the reality away for a time so he could get the job done, but grief was pushing close. “Have you notified next of kin?”
    “I’m going to do that now,” Gage said.
    Remy inhaled. He should be the one to do it. He’d been best man. When he opened his mouth to suggest it, Gage shook his head.
    “I was friends with him as well,” Gage said. “And I went to school with his wife. You have enough to do. You always get the short end of the stick, and I’m askin’ you to take lead on this. The least I can do is spare you talkin’ to Amy.”
    “Thanks, Gage,” Remy said. “Tell her I’ll stop by later.”
    “The photographer has already taken pictures and forensics is waiting. I wanted you to see everything first before anything could be disturbed. Saria took photographs as well. She documented everything she saw and had Bijou do the same. Saria has an eye for detail. I told her you’d want a word with her. They’re both waiting at the Inn.”
    Remy nodded as he skirted the crime scene. Somewhere close would be the stash of a bloodstained, hooded plastic suit, homemade, stitched together with meticulous, even stitches, plastic gloves and coverings for boots. He found what he was looking for the required four and a half feet from the body on the opposite side of the altar. This time, the discarded, bloody suit was half in the mud, as the killer had chosen a cypress tree near the water’s edge, not giving himself enough room to put the clothing in a safer place. A mistake?
    Remy frowned. That was unlike the killer. He didn’t make mistakes, but the ritual of the altar and discarding of the kill suit was part of his rigid routine. He had never deviated. The plastic clothing should have been set safely away from the water, which meant the tree chosen should have been over by several feet. Remy turned back, and studied the grove of cypress trees. There were plenty of others trees the killer could have hung the body on.
    He studied the grasses and the directions they were bent. Trails led around various trees and always back to the one the killer had used to hang Pete. “Are you certain the integrity of the crime scene was preserved? Saria and Bijou didn’t walk around? None of you did?”
    Drake shook his head. “We know better.”
    Remy nodded and made his way carefully around the area to the back of the tree where Pete’s body hung. The old cypress had several letters carved