Comes a Horseman by Robert Liparulo

about the way Lindsey was getting in her face. She guessed that Nelson had not told him the agent coming from Denver was a woman.
    â€œI understand your concern, Detective,” she said. “You know the corruption of crime scene evidence is the leading cause of botched investigations and mistrials. Even the suggestion that evidence was mishandled can ruin a prosecutor’s case. Think O. J. Usually, it’s not the investigation team’s fault—the very act of analyzing a crime scene can irreparably taint it.”
    â€œLocard’s Exchange Principle,” the detective interjected, nodding.
    â€œExactly.” She pushed her hair back behind her ear. It was a casual, girlish gesture that she was fully aware made her seem less intimidating. “The best way to preserve the viability of a crime scene is through documentation. What was the exact condition of the premises at the moment the perpetrator left? Were the lights on or off? The doors and windows opened or closed? The carpet pile up or down? You know the drill. So we send in the troops: people to dust, people to photograph, people to sketch and look and bag evidence, people to examine the body.”
    Lindsey jumped in again. “And all those people leave traces of themselves, of their having been there.”
    She smiled. “That’s where this comes in.” She nudged one of her cases with her foot. “This baby will give you lots of documentation—without lots of people.” She paused, then said, “If this is a Pelletier killing, there are four other investigations already under way. I’ve got the equipment that will help your department be the one to bring this guy down.”
    She stopped there, convinced he’d think about the other investigations. The apprehension of a dangerous felon was always everyone’s top priority, regardless of who did the catching or who got the credit. Still, she’d never met a law officer who didn’t want to be the one who got the bad guy. Right now, Detective Lindsey was wondering if her equipment really could give him an edge.
    He pretended to be looking at the spherical case and the bigger valise Nelson had set beside it, but she knew he was really mulling over her involvement. He could play the jerk and make her time here difficult for everyone, or he could cut her some slack, let her call enough shots to ensure optimal conditions for whatever it was she wanted to do, and maybe she’d leave him with something he could use to get a big feather in his cap. He surveyed his troops, and she saw what he saw: curiosity, enthusiasm, a tentative willingness to harness their horses with hers.
    â€œAll right,” he said loudly, “whaddaya got?”

6
    T he interior of the old VW minibus was ripe enough to melt plastic. Perspiration, greasy food wrappers, boxes of putrefying Chinese takeout joined with the lingering ghosts of mystery spills and things burned on the now-broken gas stove to exude an atmosphere of olfactory hell. But because it was a new aroma, all Olaf could smell was blood. It would be that way until the dogs licked themselves clean. He cranked the window open a hand’s width and savored the rush of cool night air. He was chugging west on State Highway 24, a meandering roller coaster of asphalt that cut into the heart of the Colorado Rockies. He’d already coaxed the van over Wilkerson Pass, and except for the relatively minor Trout Creek Pass, it was pretty much downhill to Johnson Village, where he’d ride 285 and then 50 into Cañon City. Now that he was in the valley between the two passes, he kept an eye out for a wooded turnoff that would provide a place to clean his weapons and let the animals out.
    In the back, one of the dogs growled and snapped, and another yelped. Olaf guessed that the chastened animal had tried to swipe a taste of gore from the other’s snout.
    â€œGo stelpa!” he yelled in the language that