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a single shell casing tucked under a shaded sandstone outcropping. The shooter hadn’t cleaned up his brass—sloppy, but not altogether unusual.
    By the time he returned to his vehicle, Call and members of the CSI team had arrived. Books led Call to the location where the killer had fired the fatal shot.
    ***
    Later in the afternoon, Books was summoned to a meeting at BLM headquarters. Alexis Runyon and Sheriff Sutter were there.
    Sutter was a slight, almost dainty-looking man in his early fifties, with receding red hair. He’d been a member of the sheriff’s department for twenty-five years and was now serving his fourth term as sheriff.
    Looking at Books, Runyon said, “J.D., Charley has asked for your help investigating Greenbriar’s murder. I’m inclined to deny his request, but I thought we should talk before making a final decision.”
    Volunteering to be thrust into a murder investigation in a polarized community didn’t strike Books as prudent. The victim was the leader of a prominent environmental group, with his likely killer some radical right-wing local with an axe to grind.
    â€œIt looks like a can of worms, and I’d prefer not to become involved. And if that’s the sole purpose of this meeting, I’d like to get back to work.”
    Books started to rise when Sutter spoke. “Would both of you hold on a minute and hear me out before you make up your mind?”
    Books glanced at Runyon and dropped back in his chair.
    â€œThis is what I propose,” said Sutter. “I’ll commission J.D. a deputy in the sheriff’s department. He’ll have law enforcement authority on federal and state land. I’ll give him complete autonomy to run the investigation any way he sees fit. In return, I expect to be kept appraised of the status of the case. And, if you want, I’ll assign Chief Deputy Call as his assistant.”
    Before Books could reply, Runyon spoke. “Look, Charley, I can appreciate the seriousness of the situation, but I have major reservations about the propriety of the BLM getting involved in a murder case with local jurisdiction. What’s in it for us besides a lot of time, money, and headaches?”
    A good question, Books thought. You didn’t have to be the brightest bulb in the box to understand where Charley Sutter got his political support, and consequently, where his loyalty lay. And it wasn’t with the BLM. It had to come from the local ranch community, including the CFW.
    â€œFor starters,” said Sutter, “you’d create a lot of political goodwill here in the county. I’ve already spoken to the county commissioners and they’re one hundred percent behind the idea. In fact, they’ve already agreed to reimburse the BLM for J.D.’s time.”
    He’d annoyed Runyon. “You’ve already taken this to the commissioners?” It was like she’d caught the sheriff red-handed dumping a fresh cow pie all over her office floor. Sutter recognized the look and went straight to Plan B.
    â€œLook, I’m between a rock and a hard place. I need your help. Not counting myself and Call, I got six deputies to cover over 4,300 square miles. This county is bigger than Rhode Island, Delaware, and the District of Columbia combined.”
    Fine. Now tell us something we don’t know, thought Books.
    â€œBesides, we don’t have much experience handling murder investigations. In my seventeen years as sheriff, I can count the number of murders we’ve had on one hand. And most of them were domestic violence cases turned ugly. Nothing complicated like this one.
    â€œJ.D is here. He knows the community, and most important, he’s a first-rate homicide detective. I know because I called his old boss in Denver, a captain named Howard Cornell. Recent problems aside, this Cornell described J.D. as one of the best homicide detectives he’d ever seen.”
    Books gave Sutter