“Well, I guess I have to officially say that they’re dead. They are. Boy are they.” The doctor’s face was as sweaty as Bernhardt’s.

“Cause of death?”

The doctor pursed his lips. “I’m going to let Saul Weinstock do the post, but I’ve lived in hunting country my whole life, and I’ve hunted bear in Potter County here in Pennsylvania and in Minnesota, where I grew up.”

Ferro frowned. “What are you saying? That a bear did this?”

“A bear? No, the bite radius doesn’t look big enough, but if I was to make a horseback guess here, Detective, I’d say that yeah, some kind of animal was involved.”

“You’re calling this an animal attack?”

“Detective, I’m not calling this anything but two dead guys. I mean, two dead officers. What I’m saying is that from a superficial analysis—lacking the specifics of a postmortem—the wounds appear to be bite marks, which suggests animal attack.”

Ferro stepped closer and dropped his voice. “Has Dr. Weinstock shared with you the nature of the wounds he identified on the victim found yesterday?”

“Tony Macchio? Yes. Among other things he was bitten.”

“It was Dr. Weinstock’s opinion that the bites were made by human teeth. He lifted impressions. No trace of animal attack, according to him.”

Colbert nodded. “Right, I know, but that’s not what I think we have here, and mind you, it is possible that an animal came upon the bodies after they’d already been killed, but what I see—what I think I see—are different kinds of bite marks. And before you ask, no, they are not human bites. No way. Human bites are nasty but the teeth are pretty blunt. The skin is bruised more because human teeth aren’t used to biting through living skin, there’s more blunt tearing and ripping than we have here. Plus, it’s generally easy to differentiate between human and animal bite patterns just from observation. Look at an apple that’s had a bite taken out of it, you can tell if it was a man, a dog, a cat, whatever.”

Ferro looked over at the clear impressions made by a set of shoes other than the pairs worn by the cops—marks that almost certainly had to have been left by the killer—and then looked down at the bodies. He looked around for animal prints and saw nothing. “So what kind of bite do we have here?”

Colbert mopped frigid sweat from his face. “I don’t know. Maybe a dog. It’s big enough for a dog, if we’re talking dog. A German shepherd or something bigger. Nothing smaller, that’s for sure.”

“And you’re sure these wounds aren’t postmortem. I mean…it seems pretty clear that there was a third man here, and there’s a good chance it’s one of the fugitives involved in the manhunt. Are you saying that this wasn’t a murder but that these two armed officers were instead attacked by an animal?”

“Detective, I’m not sure of anything. I said that this was a horseback guess—I don’t want you to hold me to it. Whatever left the bite marks could have come along postmortem, sure. The state forest is a stone’s throw away from here, something might have smelled blood and come prowling after your fugitive killed them. Bottom line is I don’t really know.”

Ferro nodded. “Fair enough. One more thing, doctor…what do you make of the amount of blood?”

Colbert looked at him for a moment, then looked around, opened his mouth to say something, then stopped and looked at the scene again. “Hunh,” he said.

“Tell me what you’re thinking.”

“Well,” Colbert said, nodding at the bodies as he stripped off his latex gloves, “there is certainly a great deal of visible blood spill and spatter…”

“But?”

“But given the severity of the injuries—to two grown men—the amount of visible blood is less than you would expect.” He cut a look at Ferro. “That’s what you’re referring to, isn’t it?”

Without directly answering, Ferro said, “I would appreciate it if you noted that in your preliminary report.” When the doctor nodded, Ferro added, “Dr. Colbert, I’d prefer you only spoke with Dr. Weinstock about this, and no one else. Are we clear on this?” His brown eyes bored into Colbert’s and the ME nodded, then moved away without another word.

As the doctor left LaMastra ushered the police photographer and the techs onto the scene. The photographer’s flash was popping wildly as Gus Bernhardt lumbered heavily up, his eyes now dry but still looking hurt. He had a cell phone in his hand and was flipping the lid closed as he approached.

“A word with you, Frank?” murmured Gus, touching his elbow and then guiding him to one side out of earshot. “Frank, we’re losing control of this situation.” Ferro gave him the kind of look a comment like that deserved, but Gus shook his head. “No, what I mean is that we really don’t have the manpower and resources to do this. Half the men we have on the force are local shopkeepers and gas station attendants dressed up like cops, and you know that as well as I do. They’re beat from working double shifts. These two poor sonsabitches—Cowan and Castle—they were local boys. No way we should have stuck them out here alone.”

“They were two well-armed and well-trained professional police officers,” Ferro said quietly.

“Yeah, okay. Maybe.” Gus wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. He was a massive, sloppy fat man in a poorly tailored uniform that was all decked out with whipcord and silver buttons. No matter what the temperature his face was perpetually flushed red and shining with sweat, though at the moment he was even redder and wetter than usual. He looked like he wanted to say something, but he didn’t have the words to express what he was feeling. Ferro didn’t much like the chief, but he felt sorry for him.

“Has the mayor been informed about this?”

“No one seems to know where he is. We’ve tried everything, but his cell is turned off, he’s not in his office, and his wife said that Terry wasn’t home.”

“That seems odd, doesn’t it? Did his wife seem agitated? Was she worried?”

“Well, I didn’t think to ask,” Gus said, and saying it reinforced for both of them the difference between him and Ferro. The Philly cop would have asked, and would have done it as a matter of routine, and they both knew it. Gus changed the subject. “Could Ruger have done this before he set out for the hospital last night?”

LaMastra, who had just joined them, said, “No, sir. Jimmy Castle had called into your own office at 4:57 A.M. That’s what? Just shy of two hours ago. He’d called in a request for coffee and hot food because it was getting cold out here.”

Gus’s face was screwed up in puzzlement. “That don’t make sense. Ruger was dead by then. Macchio’s been dead for two days and Boyd was spotted in Black Marsh yesterday, apparently heading southeast. So…who’s that leave?”

“Has to be Boyd,” LaMastra said. “No one else it can be.”

“But why? From what you guys told me Ruger was the only killer. Boyd was a flunky. What’d you call him? A ‘travel agent’…he mostly just got real crooks out of the country and stuff like that. Why would a guy like that screw up his own getaway to come back here and kill two cops? It doesn’t make sense.”

“Christ, Chief, nothing about this case has made a damn bit of sense since Ruger and his buddies wrecked their car here,” LaMastra said.

“Wish I could say that I had a working theory about what’s going on,” Ferro said, “but I don’t. Perhaps the ME’s report will give us something we can use.”

A few yards behind them, hidden in the lee of an ambulance, was a small, balding man with wire-frame glasses and a handheld tape recorder. Willard Fowler Newton, who doubled on news and features for the tiny Black Marsh Sentinel, was staring at Ferro’s broad back, and like Chief Bernhardt and the coroner, he was sweating badly despite the cold. He had slipped through the police cordon in hopes of getting enough for a good news story for the morning papers, but he sure as hell didn’t expect to get this.

Chapter 3

(1)

“Let’s go inside. I’m freezing my nuts off out here, Frank,” complained LaMastra, shivering in his light blue PHILA PD windbreaker. Ferro didn’t seem to mind the cold as much, or at least had more discipline and didn’t show it, but he offered no argument when LaMastra repeated his suggestion. They moved into the Guthrie farmhouse, which was already crowded with cops of various kinds. Most of the officers looked expectantly at Ferro, but one glance told them that he had nothing new to say. The detectives went into the kitchen and the local officers seated at the table cleared out as soon as LaMastra gave them The Look. Ferro sat down and sipped his coffee; LaMastra strolled over and peered into the big pot that stood on the stove. The turkey soup was two-days cold and there was a thin film of grease congealed on the surface. “I’ll just heat this up a bit,” he said, looking at Ferro for approval. “Shame to let it go to waste. Think it’s still good?”

Ferro was too tired to care either way, so LaMastra stirred the soup vigorously, replaced the lid and sat down across from his partner. Vince LaMastra was a big blond ex-jock who had played wide receiver for Temple University before entering the police academy. At thirty he still had the narrow hips, broad shoulders, and bulky muscles of a college ballplayer, but now there were the beginnings of crow’s feet at the corners of his bright blue eyes and laugh lines etched around his mouth. Not that he was laughing at the moment as he sat hunched over, forearms on the table, frowning at Ferro. “Gus was right—this case is getting away from us, Frank.”

Ferro snorted. “We never really had our hands on it. This was a runaway train from the first.” Frank Ferro was older and more battered than his partner, his dark brown skin marked here and there by faded pink scars—souvenirs from his days walking a beat in North Philly. His manner was quiet and refined, but his eyes were cop’s eyes. Quick and hard.