phone. He could barely hear what the dispatcher said, so he had to keep asking her to repeat the message.
“The governor’s on his way,” she said, practically shouting into the other end. “And he’s bringing your new director with him.”
“New director?” Joe asked.
“Oh,” the dispatcher said, “you haven’t heard?”
6
WHILE JOE TEXTED THE QUESTION
WHAT’S THIS ABOUT a new director?
to Wyoming game wardens Biff Burton and Bill Haley for some kind of clarification, Justin Woods escorted the occupants of the helicopter from where they’d landed on a wide spot on the ridge road down to the Roberson lot.
Joe looked up to see three men behind Woods. He recognized the last in the group as Special Agent Chuck Coon, who lagged suspiciously behind the first two. Joe dropped his phone into his breast pocket and reached down to help Sheriff Reed spin his chair around to face them.
“Got it,” Reed said impatiently, doing it himself.
Woods lifted the crime scene tape and stepped aside so the men could enter.
The EPA regional director—Joe would soon learn his name was Juan Julio Batista—ducked under the tape and halted, looking suspiciously from Reed to Joe to the body bags in the grass. He was slight, with a thick shock of jet-black hair and small eyes magnified slightly through rimless glasses. He wore a sport jacket over a light blue shirt with a button-down collar and pressed khaki trousers. Joe noted Batista’s fresh-out-of-the-box hiking shoes.
Batista’s eyes flitted from face to face and didn’t linger long enough to make a connection. To Joe, he sensed equal parts fear, indignation, and contempt. He pursed his lips before saying to Reed, “I’m Juan Julio Batista. People call me Julio. You’re the sheriff in charge?”
Reed introduced himself, then started to introduce his deputies, but Batista cut him off.
“Where are the bodies?”
“In the bags,” Reed said. “We left them open for your identification.”
Batista paused cautiously, as if sensing a trap.
“You assume I know them personally?” he asked.
Reed shrugged. “You don’t? I thought they worked in your shop.”
“The EPA is not a
shop
,” Batista said. “We’re a very large agency with eighteen thousand full-time employees. So no, I don’t know each and every employee personally.”
“Sorry,” Reed said, “I just assumed . . .”
“Let’s not do that,” Batista said, looking past the sheriff and toward the hole in the ground. He took a deep breath and turned to the man behind him, and said, “Bring the files.”
Reed extended his hand to the second man and said, “And you are . . . ?”
“EPA Special Agent Supervisor Heinz Underwood,” Batista answered for him. Underwood simply nodded, and didn’t shake Reed’s hand.
Heinz Underwood was in his mid-sixties, Joe guessed, but he was solidly built and ramrod-straight. He had short-cropped silver hair, a bristled white mustache, pockmarked cheeks from an ancient but serious bout of acne, a heavy jaw, and piercing eyes. Unlike his boss, he seemed to revel in full-on stares designed to intimidate until the recipient looked away. After finishing off Woods and Reed, he did it to Joe, who willed himself to look back without blinking. After a beat, Underwood smiled slightly. Joe wondered what the contest had been about, who had won, and when it would resume.
Batista gestured for Underwood to follow him, and the two walked past Joe and toward the bodies. As he passed, Underwood gave Joe another look. This time, Joe smiled back. He got the impression Underwood was a tough professional who enjoyed his job.
Chuck Coon stayed where he was, and seemed suddenly fascinated by the laces on his shoes. Joe sidled up to him and said in a sarcastic whisper,
“‘This is Special Agent Chuck Coon of the FBI.
Clear the crime scene immediately . . .’”
“Not now, Joe,” Coon said sharply.
“Politics?”
“By the truckload. I got a call this morning from the
“The governor’s on his way,” she said, practically shouting into the other end. “And he’s bringing your new director with him.”
“New director?” Joe asked.
“Oh,” the dispatcher said, “you haven’t heard?”
6
WHILE JOE TEXTED THE QUESTION
WHAT’S THIS ABOUT a new director?
to Wyoming game wardens Biff Burton and Bill Haley for some kind of clarification, Justin Woods escorted the occupants of the helicopter from where they’d landed on a wide spot on the ridge road down to the Roberson lot.
Joe looked up to see three men behind Woods. He recognized the last in the group as Special Agent Chuck Coon, who lagged suspiciously behind the first two. Joe dropped his phone into his breast pocket and reached down to help Sheriff Reed spin his chair around to face them.
“Got it,” Reed said impatiently, doing it himself.
Woods lifted the crime scene tape and stepped aside so the men could enter.
The EPA regional director—Joe would soon learn his name was Juan Julio Batista—ducked under the tape and halted, looking suspiciously from Reed to Joe to the body bags in the grass. He was slight, with a thick shock of jet-black hair and small eyes magnified slightly through rimless glasses. He wore a sport jacket over a light blue shirt with a button-down collar and pressed khaki trousers. Joe noted Batista’s fresh-out-of-the-box hiking shoes.
Batista’s eyes flitted from face to face and didn’t linger long enough to make a connection. To Joe, he sensed equal parts fear, indignation, and contempt. He pursed his lips before saying to Reed, “I’m Juan Julio Batista. People call me Julio. You’re the sheriff in charge?”
Reed introduced himself, then started to introduce his deputies, but Batista cut him off.
“Where are the bodies?”
“In the bags,” Reed said. “We left them open for your identification.”
Batista paused cautiously, as if sensing a trap.
“You assume I know them personally?” he asked.
Reed shrugged. “You don’t? I thought they worked in your shop.”
“The EPA is not a
shop
,” Batista said. “We’re a very large agency with eighteen thousand full-time employees. So no, I don’t know each and every employee personally.”
“Sorry,” Reed said, “I just assumed . . .”
“Let’s not do that,” Batista said, looking past the sheriff and toward the hole in the ground. He took a deep breath and turned to the man behind him, and said, “Bring the files.”
Reed extended his hand to the second man and said, “And you are . . . ?”
“EPA Special Agent Supervisor Heinz Underwood,” Batista answered for him. Underwood simply nodded, and didn’t shake Reed’s hand.
Heinz Underwood was in his mid-sixties, Joe guessed, but he was solidly built and ramrod-straight. He had short-cropped silver hair, a bristled white mustache, pockmarked cheeks from an ancient but serious bout of acne, a heavy jaw, and piercing eyes. Unlike his boss, he seemed to revel in full-on stares designed to intimidate until the recipient looked away. After finishing off Woods and Reed, he did it to Joe, who willed himself to look back without blinking. After a beat, Underwood smiled slightly. Joe wondered what the contest had been about, who had won, and when it would resume.
Batista gestured for Underwood to follow him, and the two walked past Joe and toward the bodies. As he passed, Underwood gave Joe another look. This time, Joe smiled back. He got the impression Underwood was a tough professional who enjoyed his job.
Chuck Coon stayed where he was, and seemed suddenly fascinated by the laces on his shoes. Joe sidled up to him and said in a sarcastic whisper,
“‘This is Special Agent Chuck Coon of the FBI.
Clear the crime scene immediately . . .’”
“Not now, Joe,” Coon said sharply.
“Politics?”
“By the truckload. I got a call this morning from the
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