Corrie nodded without speaking.

“The remains Rivers discovered look twentieth century, based on the little bit of clothing visible. But the body doesn’t look recent: maybe forty or fifty years old, at least, or so I was told. Could be anything—murder, suicide, accident. That’s where your degree in forensic anthropology comes in, especially since it was found on federal land. The sheriff—who seems like a good guy, if a little dinged up—” He paused. “Socorro’s a damn big county and he’s the only sheriff, so he’s happy to have our help.”

It wasn’t quite the shitty case she’d feared—after all, it involved the shooting of a law enforcement officer. Even so, it might turn out to be not a case at all, but just the bones of some old cowpoke who’d been kicked by a mule back in the days of

J. Edgar Hoover. But she was in no position to complain. One thing she knew for sure was that she had to hide any feelings of doubt, work hard, and always project the fa?ade of an obliging, cheerful, and promising rookie.

“Great. Thank you, sir. I’d be happy to look into it. It is right up my alley.” She plastered on a smile. Socorro was an hour away. She had never been there but sensed it might be one of those hot, sad desert towns that dotted the state. “So, I’ll be on my own?”

“Yes, until it becomes an actual case. First, you’ll probably want to head over to Presbyterian this afternoon and question the shooter. Tomorrow, you’re scheduled to liaise with Sheriff—” he rustled through his papers—“ah, Homer Watts. He’ll drive you out to where the bones are. Apparently, it’s way the hell out there and impossible to get to unless you know the route.”

Homer Watts. Was this perhaps Morwood’s idea of a practical joke? “And what time do I liaise with Sheriff Watts?”

“Eight o’clock, at the sheriff’s office in Socorro.”

That means a six o’clock wake-up. No, make that five thirty. “I’ll be there. And thank you, sir. Thank you for giving me the opportunity!”

She noticed Morwood casting her a long, appraising look. “Corrie? I know what’s going through your mind. And I just want to tell you one thing: you never know where a case might lead.” He leaned back in his chair. “Remember Frank Wills?”

“Was he an FBI agent?”

“No. He was a hotel security guard. One night, he noticed that a couple of door latches had been taped open.”

Corrie waited to hear more, wondering where Morwood was going with this.

“Seemed like a pretty small thing,” he continued. “Doors get taped for convenience all the time in hotels. But Frank mulled it over and decided to notify the police—even if they laughed at him for calling them about something as stupid as a couple of taped locks.”

He waited for Corrie’s reaction, a small smile on his face.

“So what happened then?”

“Watergate,” said Morwood.

4

CORRIE WALKED DOWN a drab third-floor hallway of Albuquerque’s Presbyterian Hospital. In her experience, hospitals were unpleasant places at best, and the corridor she found herself in was a model of neither efficiency nor cheer. Gurneys lined the walls like double-parked cars, most of them occupied by patients in various degrees of consciousness. IV racks and linen carts left here and there made her passage all the more difficult. The nurses’ station was a mob scene, everyone either on the phone or in heated conversation. Corrie was about to stop for directions when she spotted what had to be her destination: a closed door at the far end of the hall with chairs placed on either side. One of the chairs was occupied by a law enforcement officer, and a folded newspaper and cup of coffee sat on the floor beside the chair. Smoothing down her blazer with the palm of one hand, Corrie made her way through the chaos, which thinned out as she approached the closed door. The man in the chair glanced her way, and she saw from his uniform he was a ranger with the Bureau of Land Management. That made sense: the shooting had taken place on federal land, so the BLM would be in charge of guarding the prisoner. They had special agents, but few and widely scattered, so the duty would go to those a notch down on the totem pole.

“Special Agent Swanson, FBI,” she said as she stepped up to him, showing him her shield in the lanyard dangling from her neck. “Here to question the suspect.”

The ranger rose and looked at her shield and ID just long enough to be insulting. Finally, satisfied, he nodded. “Lots of luck,” he said, handing her a clipboard with a sign-in sheet.

“What do you mean?” she asked as she filled out her information.

“Guy hasn’t said a thing since he got here, other than a few choice words for the nurses when his dressing is checked.”

He retrieved the clipboard, unlocked the door, let her pass through, then closed and locked it behind her. Corrie stopped just past the threshold to look around. The room was even plainer than the average hospital room. There were no paintings, television, or even a dresser. There was only an electric hospital bed, and in it—one wrist chained to the raised guardrail—the shooter.

Now Corrie stepped forward. She’d practiced interrogations like this before, and witnessed others, but this was her first time on her own. “Mr. Rivers?” she said. “Pick Rivers?”

The man looked at her without expression. He was in his late fifties, of average height, and thin. Although he had days-old stubble, his hair was cut short and groomed.