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Escalade screeched to a stop and four people in FBI windbreakers literally leaped out. The federal cavalry from Boston had just arrived.
    And it’s about to get a lot more complicated,
he thought.

CHAPTER

4
    T HE LEAD AGENT’S NAME was Brandon Murdock. He was about Michelle’s height, a couple inches under six feet and rail-thin, but his grip was surprisingly strong. His hair was thick but cut to FBI standards. His eyebrows were caterpillar-sized. His voice was deep and his manner was compact, efficient. He was briefed first by the lieutenant. He then spent a few private minutes with Colonel Mayhew, who was the highest-ranked Maine police representative on-site. He checked out the body and the car. Then he walked over to Sean and Michelle.
    “Sean King and Michelle Maxwell,” he said.
    Something in his tone made Michelle remark, “You’ve heard of us?”
    “Scuttlebutt from D.C. makes its way up north.”
    “Really?” said Sean.
    “Special Agent Chuck Waters and I went to the Academy together, still keep in touch.”
    “He’s a good guy.”
    “Yes he is.” Murdock glanced over at the car. The chitchat was over. “So what can you tell me?”
    Sean said, “Dead guy. Single GSW to the head. He was up here repping Edgar Roy. Maybe somebody didn’t like that.”
    Murdock nodded. “Or it could’ve been a random thing.”
    “Any money or valuables missing?” asked Michelle.
    The lieutenant answered. “Not that we can tell. Wallet, watch, and phone intact.”
    “Probably not random, then.”
    “And he might’ve known his attacker,” said Sean.
    “Why do you think that?” asked Murdock quickly.
    “The driver’s side window.”
    “What about it?”
    Sean motioned to the car. “You mind?”
    They trooped over to the Buick.
    While they all looked on, Sean pointed to the window and then to the body. “Entry head wound, lot of blood splatter. No exit wound, so all the blood was driven out of the front of his head. It would have been a gusher. The steering wheel, Bergin, dashboard, seat, and the windshield all have splatters. I even got some on my hands when I opened the car door and he slumped out.” He pointed to the clear window. “But not here.”
    “Because it was lowered when the shot was fired,” said Michelle, as Murdock nodded.
    “And then the killer raised it back up because obviously Bergin couldn’t,” said Murdock. “Why?”
    “Don’t know. It was dark, so he might not have noticed that the window was clean, or else he could have smeared some blood on it to throw us off. But blood splatters have reached such a level of forensic sophistication now that the police would see right through something like that. And maybe the shooter also initiated the flashers, to make us think Bergin had broken down or stopped of his own accord. But if you pull off and lower your car window on a lonely road at this time of night? Well, that’s very telling.”
    “You’re right. That means you know the person,” said Murdock. “Good observation.”
    Sean eyed the troopers. “Well, there could be another explanation. The person who stopped him might have been in uniform.”
    To a man, all the state troopers angrily stared back at him. Mayhew said indignantly, “It wasn’t one of my men, I can tell you that.”
    The county officer said, “And I’m the only unit in this sector tonight. And I sure as hell didn’t shoot the man.”
    “I’m not accusing anyone,” said Sean.
    Murdock said, “But he is right. It could have been someone in uniform.”
    “Only an imposter,” amended Michelle.
    “Hard to pull off up here,” said Mayhew. “Getting the uniform, police cruiser. And they could have been seen. Big risk.”
    “It’s still something we have to check out,” said Murdock.
    “How long has he been dead?” asked Sean.
    Murdock glanced at one of the Maine forensic techs. The person said, “Best guess right now, about four hours. We’ll have a firmer number after the post.”
    Sean