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FOREWORD,
Chapter One - A Corpse on the Campus,
Chapter Two - Murder in Callahan County,
Chapter Three - Bonnie and Clyde

Welcome to a new adventure. Although I have had sixteen novels published before this one, this is only my second attempt at a contemporary work of fiction. The first is the children's book, Nessie and the Living Stone, in collaboration with Lois Wickstrom. As you read, please feel free to guess what is really happening in the fictional city of Murphy, Kentucky. If I've done what I intended, each time you think you know, the ground will shift under you once again.

In researching this book, I had the cooperation of the police in Murray, Kentucky. There I discovered that police procedures in small cities in America's heartland are not the big-city tactics seen in books, films and television. They simply don't have the crime scene units and forensics specialists I had in my first draft. I came away from my experience with the local police with deep admiration for their professionalism under difficult circumstances.

My fictional Murphy, Kentucky, police department is not run exactly the way the Murray police department is -- that was necessary for my plot. However, good cops working hard for low pay, without high-tech equipment, yet doing an amazingly fine job despite budget restraints is an accurate picture of Murray's police. I hope I have conveyed the essence if not the actuality.

Geographically, my fictional community of Murphy sits right on Murray's site. Its people have the ingrained sense of fair play that governs the real West Kentucky community. Some of the chain stores are even the same (and some are not). However, no one in this book is based on any real person, nor do the crimes committed, to my knowledge, resemble any real crimes committed in my home town. I hope the residents of Murray will take all the favorable aspects of Murphy as a tribute, and all its unfavorable ones as fiction.

I believe in interaction between writers and readers, and invite comments on my work. Send them to jean@simegen.com.

To keep in touch with readers, I attend two or three conventions and conferences every year, and occasionally teach writing workshops. I also keep my website, http://www.jeanlorrah.com, updated with all my latest news and activities.

I'm happy to provide information on my projects, or answer the kinds of questions that require just a few words. While I cannot become your personal writing tutor, Jacqueline Lichtenberg and I operate WorldCrafters Guild, a professional writing school, at http://www.simegen.com. It's free -- please come and have a look.

I am grateful for the encouragement my readers have given me over the years, and sincerely hope those of you familiar with my work will enjoy this new adventure. If you've never read anything else I've written, welcome! I hope you'll find something new and exciting in Blood Will Tell. To old friends, welcome back! I hope you also find something new here, along with whatever has brought you back for more.

Jean Lorrah

Murray, Kentucky

Chapter One - A Corpse on the Campus

Having come of age in the AIDS decade of the 1990's, Brandy Mather reached the millennium and the age of twenty-eight as a virgin. She was not unique among girls who grew up in West Kentucky. In high school she learned several ways to bring a human male to climax without intercourse. In college, she came very close to marrying the first man she met who knew how to reciprocate.

In college she also discovered criminal psychology, which led her first to the Police Academy, then back to her hometown of Murphy, Kentucky. Brandy was the first female police officer to move from traffic patrol into the crime division. There were no further divisions; even though Murphy was the county seat of Callahan County and boasted a regional university numbering 8000 students, the city was not large enough to require separate juvenile, vice, or homicide squads. It was all in a cop's day's work.

Brandy had just been promoted to plainclothes work -- mostly because the department felt it wise to have a woman handle the increasing reports of spouse and child abuse as well as rape. That late summer the case that was to change her life occurred. It was a Friday, and Brandy looked forward to having the weekend off.

It had been one of those long, frustrating weeks when leads didn't pan out, stakeouts merely wasted hours, and the local citizenry chose to shoplift, throw eggs at each other's cars and houses, shoot out store windows in the middle of the night, and slash tires. Ex- husbands threatened former wives, visitors forged checks, and the police spent endless hours tracking delinquent husbands to serve flagrant non-support warrants. No satisfying saving of lives or solving of challenging cases. The paperwork thus generated only served to increase stress levels.

By 7:38pm Brandy had finished her final report. "Go home and hug your kids," she told her colleague, Churchill Jones, with whom she shared the tiny detectives' office with its single computer. "Write the rest up in the morning. If you try to do it now you'll be here till midnight." Church was a perfectionist about his written work.

"You okay?" he asked. "Maybe you should see your mom tonight."

Brandy winced. Close to his own parents, Church couldn't fathom the gap between herself and her mother, grown even wider since her father's death. Thank God her mom was dating again; Brandy no longer her sole emotional support.

"I'll be all right," she responded. "The VCR's been taping movies all week. I'm going to be a couch potato."

"Not all weekend," Church told her in a tone that brooked no denial. "You're coming to Sunday dinner -- noon sharp. I'm barbecuing."

"Okay. I'll bring mint chip ice cream." It was his kids' favorite.

So Brandy was alone when the call from Jackson Purchase State University came in: a dead body in Callahan Hall.

"After this crazy week," she commented flippantly, "what's another corpse?"

What it was, was a mystery. The body was in the office of Professor Everett Land, but the curious students and faculty who had gathered said it was not the professor. Campus security had made sure that no one trampled through the room nor moved the body. It sat in the chair behind the desk, eyes closed, hands folded over sunken belly, as if the man had just slept away.

Not a bad theory, for the man was extremely old. Face and hands were bony, flesh shrunken, nose and knuckles protruding. Wispy white hair clung to the skull. The eyes were sunk deep in their sockets.

There was no sign of struggle or pain; the man appeared to have died peacefully, a beatific smile on his face.

But who was he?

The office was one of only three in the Classics Department, Classics being one of those subjects, like philosophy, that no one would dream of majoring in. When Brandy had attended JPSU a decade ago there had been talk of phasing out such departments in the regional universities. Who in West Kentucky needed Virgil or Sophocles?

The custodian, Mary Samuels, remembered that Land's office had been unlocked -- and that was unusual, as the lights had been off. Dr. Land was normally either in with the lights on, or out with the door locked, when she came to clean.

Samuels was a good witness. "I turn on the lights," she explained, "an' there's this ol' man. But he's -- you know -- not moving. I mean at all. I got a creepy feeling, tried to wake him up. When I touched him I knowed he was dead." She wiped her hand on her smock at the memory.

There were no evening classes on Friday. Very few people were in the building. Next- door the Philosophy Department was dark and locked. Across the hall in the History Department, Professor Jane Mason had a meeting with a student working on a Master's Thesis. They had brought a bucket of chicken, and were just settling down to work when the commotion in Classics caught their attention. Another history professor, Miller Kramden, didn't know anything had happened until a student poked her head in to say someone had died.

As word spread, more people arrived to check out the rumor. The body could not be moved until the coroner had examined it and Brandy had taken photos and prints. She let people look from the doorway, hoping someone could identify the corpse. No one could.

Meanwhile, she tried telephoning Professor Land at home. She got an answering machine.

Budget constraints required Murphy detectives to work alone, so Brandy enlisted the help of Campus Security Chief Howard McBride, a retired cop with many more years of experience than she had, to investigate the crime scene. While they were working, Dr. Troy Sanford, the coroner, arrived. "Can't be sure till the autopsy," he said, "but there's no signs of foul play. Looks like natural causes."

"But who is he?" Brandy asked in frustration as she searched the pockets and bagged the contents: pipe, tobacco, butane lighter, 73¢ in change, pocket knife, handkerchief -- linty, as if carried unused for quite some time -- and chalk in a plastic holder. She gave the man's wallet to McBride to fingerprint.

There was $62.00 in bills, a faculty I.D., and a driver's license. The laminated plastic documents showed a man in his forties, with thick curly brown hair and blue eyes. Brandy read the name on the faculty I.D.: Everett Land, Ph.D., Professor, Classics Department.

"Oh, damn," said Brandy. A crime had been committed, even if it was only some obscene practical joke. Someone had planted Land's wallet on the corpse. The money in the wallet made it petty theft. There was a MasterCard, too, a group medical insurance card, social security card, and an automatic teller card.

There were no family photos.

Doc Sanford estimated the death as occurring between 5:30 and 7:00pm. "He could have walked in here alive."

"But someone went over the desk pretty carefully," said McBride. "No fingerprints there or on the bookshelves. A few on the filing cabinet and the doorknob, but they'll probably turn out to be the custodian's."

"You're suggesting someone wiped the prints away?" Brandy asked.

"Looks that way -- very thorough job, too. There's not even a print under here," he showed her as he pulled the last piece of clear fingerprint tape from the bottom edge of the main desk drawer. It was one of those flat, shallow drawers without a handle, opened by sliding it out with a hand on the bottom of the drawer. "Probably not a student," McBride said. "When we've had break-ins by kids looking for exams or grade books, even when they think to wipe away prints they always forget that spot. This is a pro."

So someone had searched the desk. "But what was he looking for?" Tired and half giddy from no supper and only microwave soup for lunch, Brandy did not like the direction this event was taking. That was how crimes went in America's Heartland: either simple and straightforward and solved within hours, or totally confused, committed by people with warped imaginations and half-baked ideas of witchcraft and Satanism.

Hardly had the thought crossed her mind than she heard the gossip start. Students, faculty, and staff began to speculate, "Who is it?" "Somebody musta stole the corpse and put ol' man Land's I.D. on it. Show what a mean old bastard he is." "No -- it's the Satanists! That is Professor Land. They put a death curse on him!"

The headache that had been incipient all day grasped Brandy's skull with fingers of steel. She bagged the wallet and told McBride and Sanford, "Until we find out who this guy is, and locate Dr. Land, it'll be early Halloween!"

She turned to the gathered faculty and students. "You are not witnesses unless you were here earlier, between the time the secretary left..."

As she hoped, one of the students supplied, "4:30."

"If you were here between 4:30 and the time Security arrived, please try to recall anything that would tell us who brought this body in, and how. Or if you saw the man walk in alive. Did anyone notice when Dr. Land left today?"

There was only head-shaking. The earlier Land had left, the wider the window of opportunity for sneaking the corpse into his office. Brandy remembered her own days as a student assistant in Sociology; even though it was a much larger department than Classics, there were times when absolutely no one was in the suite.

A call to the department secretary produced an answer, of sorts: Land had still been in his office when Ms. Sandoval left for the day.

Criminal intent or a really stupid prank? Brandy had to proceed as if it were the former. The coroner removed the body, leaving her to witnesses with little to contribute until a man Brandy hadn't seen before entered the suite.

Brandy was at the secretary's desk, just finishing taking notes from the history professor who had been working with her grad student. They had noticed nothing.

The new arrival asked, "Are you from the police?"

"I'm Detective Mather," Brandy told him. "We're investigating a body found in Dr. Land's office."

"Rett?"

"No. But whoever put the body there planted Dr. Land's I.D. on it. That means some kind of crime was committed, at least a theft. Do you know anything about it?"

"I guess not, then. I'm Dan Martin, from Computer Science." He pronounced his last name 'Martine.' "I set up Rett's computer, showed him how to access the Internet."

"Did you see him today?"

He pondered. "All the faculty in this building see each other sometimes, in the elevators or the halls. I don't recall seeing Rett today. I just saw them carrying the body bag past my door. Someone said it was Dr. Land, so I came to see what had happened. Listen, I'm sorry for bothering you." He started to leave, then turned back. "But maybe I can help. You said somebody put the body in Rett's office. Do you know how?"

"Possibly he arrived alive, and died in the office."

"What does Rett say?"

"He's not here or at home. Any idea where he might be?"

Martin shook his head. "I don't know him that well -- academic rather than social friendship, if you know what I mean. But if the body was moved after it was dead, it didn't have to come through the office lobby."

This was interesting. "Oh?" Brandy asked.

"There were some computers stolen a few years ago," Martin explained. "Thieves broke a ground-floor window to get in. The ceilings are false, with heating and cooling ducts and the sprinkler system above them."

The university was notorious for lack of security; funds barely covered maintenance. Broken windows set off no alarms. Offices and laboratories, where equipment and vital data were kept, were all on upper floors or on inner walls with no windows. Most, like Land's, required not only a key to the office itself, but a different key to the suite door.

But now that Martin mentioned it -- "I remember," said Brandy. "They went over the ceilings into some offices and stole several PC's. I was a student at the time."

"It was before I arrived," said Martin, "but they still talk about it. Wouldn't be worth a thief's while today; most of the equipment is badly outdated."

"That must be frustrating," said Brandy, "trying to teach computer science on outmoded equipment."

"Oh, we've got some new technology for the upper-level students. Anyway, the ceilings are just a thought, if the coroner says the body was moved."

Brandy found herself smiling at Martin. She liked him -- and didn't know why. He certainly wasn't her type.

She didn't care much for intellectual men, although she got along well enough with the university faculty on professional matters. Murphy was three hundred miles from the police laboratories at Frankfort. It was easier to ask a local expert than someone that far away, and JPSU had the largest variety of experts in Western Kentucky.

Brandy didn't generally think of herself as preferring a particular type of man; she had dated blonds, brunettes, and redheads over the years. However, they had always been large and strong and all-American. This man was lean and wiry and faintly exotic.

Like many of the JPSU faculty, he didn't sound like a West Kentuckian, but his accent was Midwest American, nothing foreign about it. His hair and eyes were midnight black, his skin a fine, even gold, but his voice, deep and just a touch gravelly, was both memorable and sexy.

He was nothing like any man she had ever taken an interest in before.

And what was she doing taking an interest in the middle of an investigation? What in the world had sent her mind wandering in that direction? Brandy realized she had been smiling at him like a fool for several seconds, and broke the gaze to pick up her pen.

But she had nothing to write. Professor Mason had gone back to her office, and the custodian was waiting to lock up. "I guess I'm finished here for tonight," Brandy said. "Let's check your theory before I seal Dr. Land's office."

Back in the office, where the tape on the chair did not look anything like the shape of a body, they saw no sign that the large ceiling tiles had been moved. But Martin spotted something else. "Rett's backup disks are gone."

"His what?"

Martin gestured to an empty spot on the neat desk. "There should be a box of zip disks right there with all his backup files." He looked over at the bookcases, but there were no boxes of disks there, either. "No one that I train relies on a hard disk as his only copy!" he commented.

"Maybe he took them home. But I'll add it to the report, and we'll see what the autopsy says," Brandy said, locking the door. Then she ran the yellow tape across the doorframe, to warn anyone from disturbing the scene.

"Where are you going now?" asked Martin.

"Back to the station. I have to write up a report."

"Now?" he asked in surprise.

Brandy looked at her watch. "It's only 8:50. I'll still get home in time to start a lazy weekend."

Martin walked with her through the corridor and punched the "Down" elevator button. Then, rather sheepishly, he said, "Look -- this may sound foolish, but I guess we're all curious about real police work, as opposed to what we see on television. Could I come with you, see what you do -- then maybe buy you a pizza?"

"I warn you," said Brandy, "it's not very exciting!"

"That's all right."

"Okay. I'll meet you at the station."

"Uh -- could I hitch a ride? I walked to campus today," he said as they rode down in the elevator.

"Sure. Just remember, if you have anything weird in mind, I carry a gun."

He chuckled, a small, quiet sound. "Anything I had in mind would not require a gun -- or handcuffs, either, in case you were concerned."

On the ground floor they stopped for Martin to turn off the monitor on his computer. "It's still running," Brandy noticed as the power light stayed on.

"Faxes may come in over the weekend," he explained.

Then he locked his office, a claustrophobic one without windows. There was no one else in the Computer Science suite, either, so he also locked the outer door, and they walked out to the parking lot.

The night was almost as bright as day, the full moon riding large over the rooftops. It would be early fall in New England and along the Great Lakes, sweater weather, football weather. In Western Kentucky it was still late summer, hot by day, warm at night.

They talked easily, like old friends, but Brandy could not have said what about. At the station Brandy wrote up her report as quickly as possible, growling as her tired fingers hit the wrong keys.

Martin came up behind her, so silently she didn't know he was there until his soft voice asked, "How long have you been on duty?"

Through a yawn, she replied, "Over twelve hours now." She didn't mention how badly she needed the overtime.

Warm fingers touched the back of her neck, massaged gently. "Relax." The deep voice was hypnotic, the hands magic. He rubbed from her hairline downward, the pain and tension seeming to follow his fingers down out of her head.

Brandy felt like a contented cat, ready to purr under Martin's petting. The cares of the endless week drifted away, and she leaned into his touch, entranced.

When Martin stopped, Brandy wondered if she had been literally in a trance, for she was suddenly wide awake, refreshed, and serene. "If you could bottle that," she told Martin, "you'd be a millionaire!"

"I don't want to be a millionaire," he replied. "I'd have to worry about people liking me only for my money."

It was easy, once her headache was relieved, for Brandy to finish her report. She signed out at last, and they drove over to Pizza Hut. There they discovered that they both liked pepperoni pizza.

Brandy was by now ravenously hungry. They had ordered a medium pizza -- and only as she halted her reach for the last piece did she realize to her embarrassment that she had consumed four slices to Martin's one.

"Go on," he said when he saw her hesitation. "I had dinner earlier. You obviously didn't."

The place was crowded with college kids, and there must have been a dozen cheery "Hi, Dr. Martin!"'s from students going in and out. But then, the new semester had just begun. Brandy recalled that students tended to like all their professors till about midterm.

She took in stride the stares she received, remembering how odd it was to realize that one's teachers had a life outside the classroom. Probably, she thought, his students wouldn't think much of Martin's taste in women. Brandy was in her plain-neat-suit work clothes, her hair scraped efficiently back into a twist, her makeup minimal.

Now that she thought of it, she was pretty much at her worst. Martin's interest seemed genuine. He asked about her work, family, education -- and as they sat nursing the final drops of Pepsi in red plastic glasses she realized, "You know all about me -- but I know nothing about you!"

"I grew up in Iowa," he said, "until I was twelve. Then we moved to Nebraska. I did undergraduate work in Computer Science at M.I.T., then got my doctorate at the University of Central Florida. I taught for a while at Florida State, then came here. I guess I like Kentucky because I'm still a farm boy at heart."

"You had a farm in Iowa?"

"Till my dad died. Mom couldn't scrape together enough money to run the farm and pay taxes at the same time, so she sold the farm and we moved in with her uncle in Nebraska. One of those big old houses in the middle of wheat fields, not another building as far as you can see."

"We drove across route 80 out to California one summer," said Brandy. "I remember thinking Nebraska was the emptiest place I'd ever seen. That was before we saw the Mojave Desert!"

"Yeah. I like it a little more populated, like here, or Indiana, or Iowa or Ohio."

"Ohio? I grew up in Ohio in the middle of a big city!" said Brandy.

"I meant the farmlands in the southern part of the state. I guess I'll never be completely happy as a city boy. I'm up for tenure this year. If I get it, I'm going to buy a place in the county. Not a farm; there's no future in small farms today, and I really love teaching. But I want some land, some woods, maybe a pond. A place where I can have a garden. And a nice, big, comfortable old house."

Brandy smiled. "I know what you mean. When Dad moved us from Cleveland to Murphy, it seemed like the back of beyond. I thought everyone was a redneck, the kids a bunch of yokels. But I've lived here more than half my life now, and y'know, Murphy's about the best compromise you're gonna find. Big enough to be civilized, small enough to be friendly. There are drugs, but not gangs, and we're not big enough for major dealers. We've got bootleggers, but nobody cares except during election campaigns. If it weren't for the chop shops, the family fights, and the drunk drivers, there wouldn't be much for police to do."

"Except investigate mysterious corpses," he said.

"I'm glad I took that call," said Brandy. "This case could take genuine detective work. I went into police work to solve crimes. Except for the ongoing drug operations, not a lot of real detective work is required on my job."

"No unsolved murders?" Martin asked.

"You read the papers. It's always the husband, the wife, the boyfriend, the girlfriend. No work to solve it. Hey!" she realized, "you've turned the conversation back to me again! I want to know more about you. You said your father died when you were twelve. Your mother?"

"Died in a car wreck when I was in college."

"Brothers and sisters?"

"One brother who died in the Gulf War."

Brandy did a quick calculation. "He must have been much older than you."

"No -- he went in the army at nineteen."

"Rough. You're pretty much alone, then, except for that uncle."

"He was Mom's uncle, and he's dead now, too. I guess I've still got some cousins, but I never stayed close to them. What about you?"

"My little brother died when I was ten. Hit by a car. I don't think my mother has forgiven me to this day."

"Forgiven you?"

"I wasn't watching him. I wasn't told to watch him that day -- it was right after school, no different from any other day. Les was playing ball. I was skipping rope with some other girls. I didn't know what had happened until I heard the boys screaming."

"It wasn't your fault," Martin said.

"I know. I knew then, although Mom almost convinced me I was wrong. But Dad stuck by me, and eventually we got over it."

She blinked. "You did it again! What have I known you for -- two hours? And you've got my whole life story! I didn't tell my best friend about Les till we'd known each other for months."

"I'm just a good listener," he said. That was when Brandy noticed that he didn't smile the way other men did when they uttered such pleasantries. Had she seen him smile at all? She wasn't sure.

"Well, good listener, I'm afraid it's time to go home," said Brandy as a new rush of customers entered the restaurant. She was amazed to see that it was 11:23. The 9:00pm movie must have just let out.

Ten minutes later Brandy found herself pulling up outside her own apartment building, Dan Martin still in the car. She didn't feel tired, though, and the night was bright with the full moon. "Wow. I must be so tired I spaced out," she said. "I didn't even ask where you live."

"That's okay. I'll walk home. But I'll see you to your front door first."

Brandy laughed. "I'm perfectly safe. I'm a cop, for goodness' sake!"

"And I'm a gentleman," he replied, getting out and coming around to open her car door. No man had done that since a couple of extremely shy boys in high school!

Deciding she did enough roaring as a police officer, Brandy let him hand her out of the car and walk her up the stairs. At her door, he said, "I want to see you again."

"I'd like that," she replied, and fought down a strong urge to invite him in. This was not the swinging 70's, when safe sex meant not banging your head on the headboard!

She had wanted men before, but never so strongly -- and never, ever, on a first acquaintance. She had always resisted, successfully.

Dan Martin took her in his arms, and Brandy discovered how comfortable it was to be held by someone only a few inches taller than she was. Their lips met without either getting a crick in the neck. It was as if they had kissed a thousand times before, knew each other's texture and rhythm.

She opened her mouth to his, found warmth and gentle teasing. He nibbled at her lips, then stroked his tongue under her chin and down her throat. It felt both weird and wonderful. She tilted her head, let him caress her neck.

Although they were standing, she practically lay in his arms. How strong he was, never a quiver of his muscles under her weight. She felt secure, protected, and eager. Finally, she knew what she had preserved her virginity for!

But even as Brandy sought to find Martin's mouth again with hers, he let her go. "I'm sorry!" he gasped, breaking the spell. "Please -- forgive me."

"There's nothing to forgive," Brandy said, caught between confusion at his sudden change and the lingering desire he had evoked in her. "Why don't you come in?"

"Not tonight," he said, too hastily. "Please -- go inside, Brandy. You're too intoxicating by half."

It was not until the next morning that she realized she could not remember telling him her nickname. She had introduced herself as "Officer Mather." He would have seen "Brenda Mather" on the nameplate on her desk. But she hadn't misheard that remark about intoxication.

Brandy woke to her cat kneading her shoulder at 10:00am on Saturday morning. When she recalled last night's strange events, she knew she would have to find some pretext to look up Dan Martin again.

Unless he contacted her first.

But the weekend passed with no word from Martin. The phone did ring, twice. First it was her mother. Brandy insisted she was too tired to go out to dinner that evening. An hour later, once she got over her disappointment that it was not Dan Martin, the second call made her glad she had refused her mother's invitation.

"Hi, Kid!" It was her friend Carrie Wyman.

"Carrie! Hi. What's going on?"

"I have an empty Saturday night on my hands. I know it's short notice -- "

"Come on over!" Brandy told her. "I've got movies and popcorn and nothing else to do!"

Sated on popcorn and the dramatic excesses of Francis Ford Coppola's Dracula, the two women turned off the TV to talk. "Why do we still believe in love that will last through time?" Carrie asked.

"I don't believe in it," Brandy replied. "It's just nice to fantasize about. What I really want to believe possible is to have my work and still marry a nice man and have a family."

"Dream on!" Carrie said sarcastically. She was only Brandy's age, but last year her husband had walked out on her in favor of a nineteen-year-old. Once she knew that he had been unfaithful, Carrie let him have the divorce. It would be hard for Carrie to trust another man anytime soon.

Like Brandy, Carrie was a hard-working, underpaid career woman, the city's last remaining senior social worker. Budget cutbacks had downsized Murphy's social services just when they were most desperately needed, and most of the experienced staff had been replaced with low-paid assistants. Carrie believed in her work, and had added to it a weekly radio show in which she tried to encourage families to find solutions before abuse, drug use, or alcoholism sent them into her overcrowded programs. She was also setting up self-help groups through local churches.

Both Brandy and Carrie had such grueling schedules that it was rare for them to have an evening like this one. But they were old friends from college days. It didn't matter if they didn't see each other for a month; when they got together it was like being with the sister neither one had.

Brandy found herself telling Carrie about Dan Martin.

"You like him," said Carrie with a knowing smile.

"I hardly know him," Brandy protested.

"But you'd like to."

"Maybe. He hasn't called."

"Your phone's unlisted," Carrie reminded her.

"Arrgh! You have no right to be so pretty and so smart!" Brandy growled, tossing a pillow at her friend.

Carrie looked like a young Elizabeth Taylor, or Vivien Leigh as Scarlett O'Hara: huge blue eyes, magnolia blossom skin, and the kind of slender figure designers loved to drape fashions on. Carrie even looked great in the outsized tee-shirt and bunny slippers she wore tonight. Furthermore, she had been endowed with thick, wavy brown hair and long black eyelashes. If she weren't so damn nice, it would be easy to hate her!

Observing Carrie's marriage from the outside, Brandy had been able to see what Carrie couldn't: George Wyman had fallen in love with the cute, pretty, bubbly outside, and never seen the serious, dedicated woman within. As Carrie had taken on more responsibility in her work, he had become less supportive -- and eventually had found himself another cute, pretty, bubbly girl. Brandy could only hope that this one was genuinely shallow; if so, she might be able to keep his interest.

Carrie had intended to stay the night, but at 11:38pm her beeper sounded. She phoned her service, then turned apologetically to Brandy. "It's an abuse case -- I've been trying to get this woman to take her kids and run before someone got seriously hurt. Her husband got drunk and hit her three-year-old. Thank goodness it's only a broken wrist. But I've got to go to the hospital and keep her from going back to that louse, at least tonight."

"You need help?" Brandy asked.

"No. She's fragile, Brandy. She believes that beast is her only support and protection. Until she believes otherwise, police intervention will only scare her back to him." Pulling on jeans and searching for her loafers, she added, "This is a breakthrough. Really. A strong woman like you can't believe how battered women think. She's finally asking for the help she needs."

"I understand," said Brandy. "Too bad we couldn't talk all night the way we used to do in the dorm. But a night's sleep will probably do me good. Call me."

"You know I will," said Carrie. "You're my lifeline, Brandy. Thanks for being there. And hey -- good luck with the new man. Maybe he'll turn out to be the one in a million who's not intrinsically a bastard!"

On Sunday, Brandy went as promised to Church's house at noon. Churchill Jones and his wife Coreen had the kind of life Brandy had always thought of as normal -- and not hers. Their house was comfortably cluttered. In the back they had built a deck that they planned to screen in. The gas grill was fired up, foil-wrapped potatoes baking, a plate of hot dogs and fish fillets waiting to be cooked. The family had been out to the lake yesterday, where they had caught the fish. The two children, Tiffany and Jeff, were playing with their dog, a golden retriever named Sandy.

If anything, the Jones family was too ideal. It occasionally crossed Brandy's mind that they played it so stereotypically middle class because they were black. She didn't know whether they were pursuing the American dream right down to the latest kitchen appliances, or whether they felt a need to show neighbors who even in the 1990's had resented an African-American family moving onto their street that they were an asset, not a liability.

Actually, race relations were usually calm in Murphy, with errors usually on the side of ignorant good intentions. For example, Brandy had known perfectly well when she was in high school that there would always be a black cheerleader. Although the cheerleaders were chosen by vote of the student body and there were nowhere near enough black students to elect one of their own, the teachers dropped the lowest winning white candidate in favor of the black student with the highest number of votes. Brandy had been in college when what "everyone knew" and believed to be "only fair" became a temporary scandal. Interestingly, the next year there was, as usual, one black cheerleader, no further comment, and so it had gone ever since.

The determined attempts of white Murphians not to offend, to be "fair," might be clumsy, but Brandy found them preferable to the open hostility she had grown up with in Cleveland, the detente that had her going to school and her parents working side by side with ethnic minorities, but never making friends. Churchill Jones was the first close friend she had ever had who was black.

Church was enough older than Brandy for her to respect his experience, but young enough not to be a father figure. Her only problem was, he frequently read her better than she read herself.

Today Church was full of questions about the body in Callahan Hall. He quickly noticed that she had left something out. Unlike Carrie, who would wait encouragingly until someone was ready to talk, Church pounced and questioned. When he pressed, Brandy explained, "There was one more witness, who turned out not to be one. One of the professors had a theory about how the body got there. Everybody thinks they're a detective."

Church studied her. "So why did he impress you? Was he a nuisance?"

"Who said he impressed me?"

"Uh-huh," her friend said wisely.

"Okay, he took me out for pizza," she confessed. "Somebody saw us, right?"

"Not anyone who felt the need to tell me. So why are you paranoid?"

"You always say I'm paranoid when you're the one who's suspicious. Anyway, I'll probably never see him again."

"Do you want to?"

"I don't know," she equivocated. "He's a computer nerd, hardly my type. But not bad looking."

"Even with tape on his glasses and a pocket protector?" he teased.

"No glasses, and no pocket protector either. And he's a real old-fashioned gentleman. We'll see."

On Monday when Brandy got back from lunch, the coroner's report on the body in Professor Land's office was waiting on her desk.

No evidence of foul play. Lividity indicated that the body had remained where it died. Death was from multiple systemic failure due to extreme age. Doc Sanford had appended a note: "The mystery is not how the man died, but where he got the strength to walk into that office."

She added that to the fingerprint results: no prints on the wallet, except for some unknowns on the MasterCard. Why had someone done such a thorough job of wiping prints?

Furthermore, no one had yet located Professor Everett Land. Even if the man had gone out of town for the weekend, surely he would have missed his wallet! The very case that had had Brandy hoping for some real detective work was rapidly turning into another frustration.

Church came in while Brandy was studying the contradictory evidence, and picked up the top folder in his "In" basket. "Hell!" he exclaimed.

"What now?" asked Brandy.

"Judge Callahan ordered the Mortrees let go. All that work for nothing!"

Two weeks ago the Murphy police had participated in a raid on a local farm growing marijuana -- probably Kentucky's largest cash crop, if it were possible to get accurate statistics.

State, county, and local law enforcement had cooperated in the confiscation of more than five hundred plants. They had arrested the owner of the property, one Jerrod Mortree, his two shiftless brothers, and an uncle. The police had hoped to bargain with the accused men for names of distributors -- but all four men had now been released.

It was not the fault of the police who had raided the farm; everything had gone by the book. They had been certain that this time there would be no legal loophole.

"I knew it," said Church. "Any time it's the Mortrees, there's no chance of an indictment. That family's been sharecroppers on Callahan land for generations, always handy to do the Callahan dirty jobs while ol' Massa keeps 'em out of trouble with the law!"

Brandy knew Church suspected, but couldn't prove, that Judge L. J. Callahan was in on the local drug trade. Every case that came before him ended in a dismissal or an acquittal when the accused was one of the county's good ol' boys. Only independent operators like Dr. McLaren, who traded in prescription medications, were ever convicted.

If only they could find out exactly where Judge Callahan fit in. A corrupt judge, both detectives agreed, but that didn't explain whom he was working for. It was no secret he planned to run for governor in the next election -- if he were simply a pawn of some drug lord, he would be discouraged from leaving his very convenient current post.

No, there had to be more to L. J. Callahan. He was power-hungry -- there were even rumors that the governorship would be the first step in a campaign for the Presidency. If so, he was gamemaster, not a piece on the board. But what was his game and who were the other players?

To Church's annoyance, there was no way of connecting what had gone wrong this time to Judge Callahan, although it was possible, of course, that he had paid someone to destroy the evidence. It was "an accident." It "could have happened to anybody." "Sure," Church growled, "anybody who couldn't read evidence tags!"

The 500 plants confiscated from the Mortrees had been stored with evidence from other cases. When they burned the pot from the closed cases -- somehow the 500 from the open case in Callahan County were destroyed along with the rest.

If this sort of thing happened only once, or once in a great while, it would be frustrating enough. But every time they arrested one of Judge Callahan's cronies they lost the case, in court or beforehand.

But the Callahan family was so old and powerful, the very county was named for them. Church never dared make his suspicions official. All he could do was stay vigilant until he found something that would stick.

Brandy understood her colleague's frustration as she took the thick folder out of his hands, and filed the latest Mortree case as closed.

The phone rang. "Detective Mather," Brandy answered.

"Brandy, this is Dr. Sanford. About your John Doe at the college? You're not gonna believe this. I took dental x-rays, of course, but I didn't expect a quick answer because nobody seemed to know that old man. But I've got an answer already, from Dr. Mulcahey. It's one of his regular patients: Professor Everett Land."

Chapter Two - Murder in Callahan County

Brandy reported Dr. Sanford's call to the chief, then turned to her office mate. "This is really weird, Church."

Churchill Jones only nodded, but Brandy saw the envy that it was her case, not his. "Isn't there some disease that causes premature aging?" he asked.

"Yeah -- but that's something children get," Brandy remembered. "And it doesn't happen in a few hours! Everett Land appeared normal in his Friday classes."

"Find out if he lied about his age," suggested Church.

From the Personnel Office in the University Administration Building, Brandy was directed to the Dean's Office of the College of Humanities, in Callahan Hall.

Land's Curriculum Vitae included transcripts from graduate school, tear sheets of publications, and recommendations describing him as an avid scholar and a caring teacher. His sixteen-year record at JPSU was exemplary: he had published a book and been granted tenure, served as department representative to the faculty senate, supervised master's theses, continued to do scholarship, and three years ago a sabbatical had resulted in a second book. Meanwhile he had helped organize a program for JPSU students in Italy, teaching in the program twice himself.

Brandy sifted through the papers. "What about a birth certificate?" she asked.

"That will be filed at the Kentucky Teacher's Retirement System office in Frankfort," the secretary who had provided the folder told her.

Brandy groaned inwardly. She would have to go to the computer for Land's other records. She regularly used the police computer to pull up criminal records, but when it came to employment, credit records, property ownership, investments, or other sources of clues, she was hopeless.

Brandy was coming out of the dean's office when Dan Martin emerged from the computer lab down the hall. A student followed, a striking red-haired girl who said worshipfully, "I never thought I'd understand java script, but you made it so clear, Dr. Martin!"

"You do those homework exercises," he told her, "and if everything works tomorrow, you'll know you've got it."

"I'll be in the lab tonight," the girl said, but Martin had turned away from her, his eyes meeting Brandy's. The student persisted, "Will you be in your office this evening, Dr. Martin? In case I need help?"

Martin returned his attention to his student long enough to say, "Bill Harris is running the lab tonight. If you're still having trouble tomorrow, stop in during my office hours." And he left the girl there, calling, "Brandy!" as he strode down the hall.

The unexpected meeting produced a feeling Brandy thought she had left ten years in the past: an adolescent leap of the heart, so that it seemed for a moment as if she would fly away -- or get sick.

"What are you doing here?" Martin was asking. "Is there news about Rett's death?"

Brandy quickly regained her professional equilibrium. "How did you know the body was Everett Land's, when I just found out this morning?"

"When you left the Administration Building, the news started spreading. The students were buzzing about it in my last class. It's true, isn't it?"

"Yes, it's true," said Brandy. "I'm checking Dr. Land's records. He has no next of kin, and only the minimum life insurance the university provides, with the Red Cross as the beneficiary." Brandy took refuge in professional mode. "You said you were colleagues but not close friends?"

"That's right," said Martin. "I don't know anything about his personal life."

"Who were his friends?"

"I don't know. The closest contact I had with Rett was when I set up his computer. Purely a professional relationship. I'm sorry I can't be of more help."

"But you can," said Brandy. "After I interview everyone who knew Dr. Land -- "

"Everyone who knew him!" exclaimed Martin. "That's thousands of students over the years."

"No, we're looking for people who knew him well."

"Why are you still investigating? Was he murdered?"

"If he was," said Brandy, "it was not by any means I know. But the cause of death makes no sense -- old age in a man in his forties? Until we solve that mystery, we can't rule out murder. It could be poison," she suggested, "or radiation. The coroner's sending tissue samples to the state lab. Meanwhile, we see if Land had any enemies."

"Every teacher has enemies," Martin observed. "Jealous colleagues, dissatisfied students -- they all gripe and growl, but there are always an unbalanced few. Students generally attack with hate letters, or 2:00am phone calls, though. Or charges of harassment these days. Only one in a million tries to gun down the teacher."

"But it does happen," said Brandy. "If this is murder, it's certainly more subtle than using a gun!"

Martin shuddered. "Is there a poison that causes a person to die of old age in a few hours?"

"Not that I know of, but I can't rule out the possibility that someone's invented one. What genetic experiments are going on on campus?"

"None. Purchase is a regional university, not a research institution -- at least not at that level."

"Well, I'm not a medical expert, either," said Brandy. "Land could have had some disease we've never heard of. If I start to think I know what happened I could ignore clues that don't fit the theory.

"Dan," she continued, "you're a computer expert. I need to access Dr. Land's medical insurance files to locate doctors who may have treated him, tax files, previous employment and education records, friends or family -- "

"Start with Rett's own computer," said Martin. "His e-mail directory will tell you who he corresponds with, and the programs on his hard disk will tell you the things he's -- he was -- interested in. His correspondence file will give you his snail mail contacts. As campus postmaster, I can access outgoing or incoming mail still in the mainframe."

Land's office was as Brandy had left it, but when they turned on Land's computer they found that the hard drive was not functioning. "It's been formatted," said Martin.

Brandy thought that that would destroy the data -- but Martin said, "Not necessarily," and went to his office for a boot disk and a program that would unformat the fixed disk. "If whoever formatted it either didn't know to replace the data with zeroes, or didn't have time, we'll get it back."

The utility program worked; soon Land's hard drive was back in working order.

Because Martin had set up Land's computer, he was familiar with the utilities. He quickly searched out every data file the man had stored. To Brandy's disappointment, nothing was of obvious value.

"You do know one thing," said Martin.

"I do?" asked Brandy, staring at a directory of .EXM files, which turned out to be examinations.

"You know that what killed Rett wasn't radiation. Or if it was, it didn't happen in this room or anywhere nearby. Radiation would have wrecked his computer too thoroughly for us to restore the data."

Brandy smiled. "I don't seriously suspect radiation. We just can't rule out any possibility at this stage."

Land's correspondence files yielded letters in a number of languages, dealing with travel arrangements, scholarly conferences, and publications. To Brandy's surprise, Dan was able not only to outdo her limping Spanish, but to translate French and German as well. Neither of them could cope with Italian, Greek, or Hebrew, though, so they simply printed those letters out to be translated later.

"Professor Land would have been our source for Greek or Hebrew," said Brandy. "I can send the Hebrew to a rabbi in Paducah, but I'm not sure who can help with the Greek."

"Let me use Rett's PC," said Martin. "I'll e-mail the files to a friend at Columbia."

None of Land's outgoing e-mail was left in the mainframe, but they printed out letters other people had sent him. One concerned the business of some state academic assessment committee, and another was an enthusiastic response from a professor at Yale to a proposed section of papers for a national conference. The last piece said simply "Queen to Queen's Bishop 3."

"Chess?" asked Brandy.

"That's odd," said Martin. "If Rett was enough of a chess enthusiast to play by mail, why didn't he join the university Chess Club? I never even knew he played."

"We should send his correspondents the bad news," said Brandy. "Possibly Land's closest friends were at other institutions -- after all, how many people do you find in Murphy, Kentucky, who speak six different languages?"

"Seven, at least," Martin said abstractedly. At Brandy's curious look he said, "He had to know Latin, but he wouldn't correspond in it. But you're right -- we may find people on the Internet who knew him better than anyone on campus. Create a form letter. We'll send it to all his e-mail correspondents, and fax it to everyone else."

"Good idea," said Brandy. "Thanks."

She could type perfectly well, so once Martin called up the word processing program for her, Brandy soon had the message composed. "Put in your e-mail address," Martin told her. "Most people will answer you by tomorrow."

"I don't have an e-mail address," said Brandy. "I'll put in the department fax number."

"Okay," said Martin, "but add my e-mail address, too. I'll send it from my account. Most people will e-mail rather than fax because it's easiest to hit 'Reply.' I'll pass any messages on to you -- unless there's something you don't want me to see."

"I can't imagine what," said Brandy. They sent the e-mail messages, then printed out a copy of the letter for Brandy to fax from the police station.

"I don't know what to look for next," said Brandy.

"In that case, I can't help any more now," said Martin. "I have another class in thirty- five minutes. What you should do is back up the hard drive, then take the computer to your department expert."

"What department expert?"

"Don't you have a -- I guess you'd call it a forensic computer expert?"

"In Frankfort. If we can't find out what we need, I guess we just have to pack up the computer and send it." Brandy eyed the large but delicate machine doubtfully.

Martin chuckled again, that deep, soft sound he had made last night. It sent a thrill through Brandy, even though he was laughing at her ignorance. "You remove the hard disk and send that, back it up and send them the backup, or shoot them the contents via modem. But let me look first, okay? If it's not tampering with evidence?"

"That would be a huge help," said Brandy, knowing the chief would not bother Frankfort unless he was sure that the Land case was murder. "Now," she said, "can you help me access Land's state records?"

"Not from this computer. I can do it from my own with a couple of marginally legal hacker's tricks. But your computer has a perfectly legal police network program, and you have a police I.D. If you like, I can come down to the station after my last class and show you."

"You have no idea how much that would help," Brandy admitted.

But she wasn't at the station at the agreed-upon time. Back downtown Brandy found notice of a parole hearing next week for one Rory Sanford, whom she had arrested a couple of years ago. She entered it on her desk and pocket calendars, and sat down to see what files she could clear off her desk.

"Lunch time!" announced Church. "Let's go over to Sturgeon's."

Sturgeon's was a favorite eating place of Murphy's police. In the morning it was a bakery, with the best doughnuts and pastries in town. At noon it became the place to get huge hamburgers and fries, heart attack heaven.

Brandy decided she could afford the calories. Tomorrow she'd try to eat at a place with a salad bar.

Sturgeon's was plain but clean, tucked into a strip mall between a supermarket and a furniture store. Its customers provided whatever atmosphere it boasted.

It was overlap time; the pastry case was down to the last lonely glazed barnyards and cake doughnuts, the apple fritters having sold out early. A few of the morning crowd still sat talking, crumbs of shattered white glaze revealing their recent indulgence. But the smell of hot grease was in the air, the sizzle of hamburgers sputtering on the grill.

The room was crowded with tables, the square Formica kind designed to seat four, which the customers moved about and joined together as they needed them. Men in jeans and cowboy boots occupied two tables, while women in the denim or polyester of housewives grouped at another. The sexes pretty much segregated themselves in the morning; at lunchtime more mixed groups arrived.

At the front, near the window, six men in business suits lingered over coffee. Every few minutes a roar of laughter erupted from their table.

Brandy doubted that whatever they had gathered to discuss was a laughing matter; it was simply impossible to get good ol' boys to the point without the ritual of racist, sexist, and political jokes -- the secret code of the white male power base. She knew all six of these men: the loan manager of the Bank of Murphy, the owner of the Century 21 real estate office, an investment counselor, two attorneys, and Judge L. J. Callahan.

Brandy wondered what they were plotting; the presence of the lawyers and the judge suggested potential connections with her work.

When the group broke up, the rest of the men left, but Judge Callahan began making the rounds of the rapidly filling tables. He was a big, imposing man -- Brandy's mother admiringly compared him to Clint Eastwood -- and politician through and through. He knew everyone's name, shook everyone's hand, and gave a big, insincere smile to one and all.

Callahan was somewhere close to sixty years old, but he had aged well. His hair was thick and iron gray, as were his eyes, which held no trace of warmth. He had a deep suntan, but few lines in his face. Brandy suspected he either had a tanning bed or wore makeup so he would always look good if caught by a camera. His suit was conservative but beautifully made, and he had the physique to show it: broad of shoulder, narrow of waist, flat of belly. His hands were big, strong, but uncalloused -- only professional manicures could keep them so neat and perfect. His trademark Stetson hat hung nearby -- this might not be cowboy country, but both the local rodeo tradition and the fact that Murphy lay between Nashville and Branson made such headgear common. Without a doubt Callahan knew the hat supported his John Wayne/Clint Eastwood/Harrison Ford image.

Callahan knew the law -- Brandy had to give him that. He controlled his courtroom brilliantly, and his cases were rarely overturned on appeal.

Although he had not officially announced his candidacy for governor, Callahan's constant politicking had to mean something. He certainly didn't have to work to remain judge; the last two elections he had run unopposed.

Most people were flattered by Callahan's attention. He managed to time his arrival at Brandy and Church's table just as Brandy's juicy hamburger dripped grease down her hands, threatening to soak the cuffs of her blouse. While she struggled with inadequate paper napkins, Callahan turned to Church. "Officer Jones. I saw Tiffany's name on the honor roll. Congratulations."

"Thank you, Judge," Church said in non-committal tones. "We're very proud of her." He knew better than to allow his suspicion to show.

"And Ms. Mather." There it was, as the man turned his attention to her. He could have called her "officer," as he did Church, or "detective," but no, he had to emphasize that "Ms." to show how politically correct he was. Didn't he realize that men who called attention to their use of the term only displayed their discomfort?

"Good afternoon, Judge Callahan," Brandy said politely.

"Church," said Callahan, "why don't you get us all some more coffee?"

Her colleague raised an eyebrow to Brandy, who shrugged. She couldn't imagine what the judge had to say to her that he didn't want Church to hear.

"Rory Sanford's up for parole," Callahan began as he sat across from her. They were alone in a crowd, the buzz of voices too loud for normal conversation to be overheard.

"I got a notice of the hearing," Brandy said in a noncommittal tone.

"Well, I don't sit on the parole board, but if I did I certainly wouldn't want that man out early."

"Because he's a Sanford?" Brandy asked. The feud between the Callahans and the Sanfords was legendary. Doc Sanford was coroner because his regular practice was limited to those not afraid of the Callahan contingent. When he had turned seventy, the hospital board had revoked his surgical privileges, limiting his practice even further.

Brandy liked Doc Sanford a lot, and he was a damn fine forensic pathologist. She wasn't sure how he stayed in that office, except that Judge Callahan probably considered him harmless there. Rory Sanford was Troy Sanford's grandson.

"No, Ma'am," Judge Callahan responded to Brandy's remark with perfect civility. "I want Rory Sanford to serve out his term 'cause he owes a debt to innocent people. That money was to help our schools. I wish the law allowed me to sentence him to hard labor until he told where he stashed it, so it could go back to the people he stole it from!"

In the abstract, Brandy agreed. However, she suspected that Rory Sanford had no more idea where the money he supposedly embezzled had gone than she did. And Callahan appeared to have forgotten the question of Sanford's plea. Rory Sanford had been treasurer of the school system's booster fund when more than a thousand dollars had turned up missing. So had receipts and other records. Sanford had agreed to plead guilty to one count of misfeasance, claiming he felt responsible for not keeping better records.

Neither the money nor the missing records had ever been recovered, and as Brandy remembered it there had been no absolute proof that the fund had received as much money as was supposed to be missing. Sanford should never have gone for the plea, but it had been one of those spells when the court docket was immensely overcrowded, and everyone was pressured to plead. When Sanford appeared in court, however, Judge Callahan had insisted on taking his plea on one count as a plea on all counts, and Sanford's court-appointed lawyer had had no luck arguing otherwise.

"Well," said Brandy, "I don't have anything new to add. I haven't seen Rory Sanford since his hearing."

Callahan gave her his politician's smile, wide enough to reveal gold crowns on his molars. "Good. Good. The board won't listen to them bleedin' heart social workers and psycho therapists." He separated the words, turning "psycho" into a modifier. Brandy gave a reflexive smile at the lame joke, then wished she had not dignified it with a response.

"Saw your mamma at church yesterday," Callahan went on. Suddenly he had Brandy's attention. Her mother had not gone to church until she took up with Harry Davis, owner of a local radio station. Was it really getting that serious?

"Whatever makes her happy," said Brandy. And keeps her out of my hair.

"She seems happy with Mr. Davis. But you, Brandy -- how come your mother has more of a social life than you do?"

That's none of your business, Brandy wanted to retort, but held it to, "Because I'm working and she's retired."

"You should get out more. You're a very lovely woman." He turned on his best political smile.

What the hell? Brandy could not think of a polite response before Callahan filled the awkward silence himself. "There's a ball at the university on Saturday night for scholarship contributors. Would you like to go with me?"

"You're asking me out on a date?" Brandy blurted in astonishment. Church, get back here and rescue me!

The smile almost showed warmth, although it didn't reach Callahan's eyes. "You can put it that way, yes."

You bastard -- you sexually harassing bastard! Church is right about you! But what Brandy said was, "Much as I might enjoy going to a ball, I don't think it would be -- appropriate -- for us to go out together, Judge Callahan."

"L. J.," he corrected. "Why not?"

Don't play ignorant! You didn't get to be a judge by acting stupid. "Because as a police officer, I must frequently give testimony in your courtroom. I don't think it would be wise to undermine my credibility as a witness -- or yours as an unbiased judge."

"Oh, I don't think -- "

"You think only too clearly, Your Honor. Whatever you're up to, stop before you get us both into trouble," Brandy said, keeping her tone of voice and facial expression neutral. "You haven't crossed the boundary into sexual harassment yet. Please don't cross it, and I will not need to report your indiscretion."

The iron-gray eyes showed feeling now: incredulity. Granted, the man was attractive, but he was also old enough to be her father. Did he actually believe wealth and power made him irresistible?

Before Callahan could respond, Church returned with fresh coffee. As he set the Styrofoam cups down, the judge said, as if continuing a pleasant conversation, "Your mother says you'll be taking the sergeant's exam in the spring."

"I'm afraid she's mistaken," Brandy took it up with equal smoothness, ignoring the sick feeling in her gut. "She's trying to persuade me, but I don't feel ready. You know how mothers are."

"Proud of their daughters, as they should be," replied Callahan. "Well, Brandy, when you are ready, let me know. I can help you understand the legal part. You think real hard about taking the exam. I'll bet you could slide right through it." He drained the cup of coffee, stood, and took his leave, picking up his hat and pausing only for a couple of quick handshakes at other tables.

Brandy waited until Callahan was out the door before she said softly, "Damn him!"

"What's the matter?" asked Church.

"First, he's ganging up with my mother against me. Second, what was that -- a bribe?"

"What're you talking about?"

"Church, you should take the sergeant's exam, not me. You've got more experience, and you like to study. But Callahan tells me I'll 'slide right through' the exam -- right after he makes sure I'm not going to testify in favor of Rory Sanford getting out of prison."

She took a mouthful of coffee -- and scorched the roof of her mouth. Swallowing painfully, she realized that the way the judge had gulped his down meant she had upset him more than he had shown. Oh, terrific. All her careful avoidance of the man's bad side, blown in five minutes.

"God, Brandy," Church was saying. "Any mention of your mother sets you off. Are you gonna think I'm in on the conspiracy if I say she's right? You're qualified. Go for it. Let's both go for it. I will if you will, okay?"

"Oh, Jeez. Now I do feel paranoid," said Brandy. "You know what just flashed through my mind? A conspiracy to set us against each other for promotion!"

Church laughed. "Everything's a conspiracy. Come on, Brandy -- let's get back downtown."

There was a message for Brandy: Carrie Wyman had called. She dialed her number. "Sorry I missed you for lunch," said Carrie.

"You actually took a lunch hour?" Carrie was usually lucky to wolf down a sandwich between clients.

"Cancellation. I wanted to grump over the fact that my abuse case went home."

"She'll be back," said Brandy.

"Yeah, but who will get hurt the next time, and how badly? Oops! Gotta go. Here comes my next appointment!"

At 3:20 there was a call: domestic violence.

"So what else is new?" Church asked through a yawn, stretching his way into his jacket. "Come on -- this may take a woman's touch."

Two uniformed officers were already on the scene, pounding on the door of a dilapidated yellow frame house. From inside a male voice shouted obscenities against a background of female weeping.

"Open up! Police!"

The male voice shouted, "See what you done! God dammit, woman, yer nothin' but trouble!"

"Ricky, please! No!" the female voice pleaded -- and suddenly erupted into wordless screams. A child's voice shrieked in pain.

One of the officers, Jimmy Paschall, shouted, "This is the police! We're coming in!"

The screams became moans of "No! No-oh! No-oh-oh!"

Paschall smashed the glass with his gun butt.

Shots. Three fast ones, a pause accompanied by an inarticulate yell, and two more.

The male voice shouted, "Look what you made me do!" just as the uniformed officers ran into the house, the detectives on their heels, all with guns drawn.

A woman lay in front of the couch, half covering a little girl no more than three. The child wore a cast on her left wrist, and the red welt on her left cheek showed that she had been hit before being shot in the head. The woman also bore wounds in the back of her head and neck.

A boy, perhaps ten, lay in the kitchen doorway, a butcher knife clutched in his hand. He had apparently been cut down coming to rescue his mother and sister. Blood welled from a wound in his chest, and another in his neck. He had the remnants of a black eye, several days old.

In the sudden silence, the boy's labored breathing grated loudly.

The man who had created the carnage faced the police.

"Drop the gun!" Church ordered.

Faster than thought, the man put the barrel of his .35 into his mouth and pulled the trigger.

Jimmy Paschall gave a yelp as if of pain.

The other cop, Charlie Rand, said, "Call an ambulance -- hurry!" and knelt beside the boy who still clung to life.

Brandy looked at Church. His dark skin had turned a greenish hue. He moved to the woman and little girl, seeking signs of life.

That left Brandy to check the murderer. He was dead, empty eyes staring at the ceiling. She could not close them; the coroner would have to examine untouched bodies.

Just another murder/suicide. Open and shut case -- with four cops as witnesses.

Behind Brandy, Rand muttered to the fallen boy, "Just hold on, Son. The medics'll be here in a minute." But before the wail of the ambulance sounded in the distance, the labored breathing shuddered to a stop. Brandy heard the beefy cop whisper, "Take him home, Jesus. Welcome him, Lord, with his mamma and his sister. And please -- help me to understand why You take young kids like this."

Brandy's father had moved their family from Ohio to Kentucky when she was twelve. The fundamentalists here had driven her nearly crazy trying to drag her into their churches. Over the years she had perceived them as deluded or hypocritical, or perhaps just plain stupid -- but she had also gotten to know many of them as friends.

Charlie Rand had his beliefs to comfort him in the midst of senseless slaughter. Brandy had nothing.

Neither had Churchill Jones. His eyes met hers, and she knew that he, too, had overheard Rand's spontaneous prayer. Church was a lapsed Baptist, while Brandy was a never-was-anything. Police work did little to inspire belief in a benevolent force guiding the universe.

Neighbors gathered outside the house. It didn't take long to piece together the story. The husband, Matt Perkins, was laid off when the Western Electric plant closed three years ago. He found a few jobs, but never kept them long. Like almost everyone in this dry county he drank, but under the stress of unemployment he got drunk on a regular basis. Then he beat his wife and kids -- and the next day he would be all apologies and promises to lay off the booze.

And so it happened again, a family stressed beyond their capacity to cope, a woman beaten trying to protect her children, and a man brimming over with violence he had no other outlet for. Brandy remembered Carrie's case, the woman who had returned to her husband after he beat their three-year-old girl, broke her wrist --

"Oh, my God," Brandy whispered, realizing that this was the same family. A rope tightened about her skull.

There was no need to send anything from the Perkins house to the crime lab. Doc Sanford made out the death certificates, and the case was closed. All they had to do was notify the closest relatives: the parents of the husband and wife, grandparents of the two dead children.

But Brandy would have to break it to Carrie.

At the station they faced the wrath of Chief Harvey Benton. "Four citizens dead -- after my officers arrive! What kind of police protection do you call that?"

No one had an answer. Benton demanded, "Well? How'd it happen? You never broke up a family fight before?"

"The house was locked," Church recited flatly. "When Mrs. Perkins screamed, Paschall broke the door. By the time we got in, Perkins had shot his wife, his son, and his daughter. Then he turned the gun on himself."

"Jesus!" exclaimed the chief. "No wonder people call us Murphy's Law!"

"I tried," Jimmy Paschall choked out.

"It happened too quickly," Brandy came to his aid. "Paschall did try, sir. Perkins clearly wanted to die -- he had no hesitation."

"That's right," Rand backed up his colleague. "No one coulda stopped him, Sir."

Benton studied the four of them. "All right. Reports on my desk by noon tomorrow. People can't think civilians in this town can shoot one another while the police look on! Dismissed!" he added, the order left over from his military experience.

But how could Brandy dismiss that scene from her memory? Half an hour later Carrie confirmed that the Perkins family was, indeed, the one she had been working with. "Oh, God, why did I let her go home?"

"You couldn't stop her," Brandy reminded her. "Listen, you want to get together tonight? Talking might help."

"It probably would," said Carrie, "but I've got to work. Two visits out in the county and then a rape counseling group." Brandy could hear unshed tears in her friend's voice. "I have to keep my cool and get through it. I'll call you later in the week, okay?"

As she hung up, the dispatcher called, "Hey, Mather -- visitor!" Brandy found Dan Martin in the waiting area, hat in hand. She had forgotten their appointment.

"They told me you were out on a call earlier," he said. "Half an hour ago they said you were wrapping it up, so I took the chance and came back. You look exhausted."

"Rough case," Brandy agreed. "Murder/suicide."

He nodded. "If you don't want to work tonight, I certainly understand. Let me take you to dinner."

"I'm not hungry," Brandy said truthfully, even though it was 6:11. "This was an appetite destroyer. If you really don't mind, I'd rather work on the Land case than go home and think about what happened today."

The mysterious case of Everett Land was a pleasure because of what it did not include: violence toward women or children, grieving friends and relatives, or anything related to the never-ending, time-consuming, and ineffectual war against drugs.

The letters in Greek had come back from Dan's friend at Columbia, along with a message: "The longest document, not included here, is in an ancient dialect I'm still trying to identify. It's a manuscript Dr. Land must have been studying. I'll send you the translation as soon as I work it out." The letters that had been translated concerned plans for a trip to Greece the following summer.

Dan Martin knew tricks with a computer that Brandy had never seen before. Soon they had Everett Land's Kentucky Teacher's Retirement records, his insurance records, and his tax returns since he had moved to Kentucky.

The returns provided their first clue: even the first year he worked at JPSU, Land had considerable interest from savings. They followed the money to bank records, where there was no surprise that he had bought CD's when interest rates were high -- everyone who had $500 to spare had done so. What was amazing was that in the early 1980's Everett Land had had over fifty thousand dollars. During the years of high interest, he doubled it.

But where had he gotten the original money?

All the computer could tell them was that $53,726.64 had been transferred to the Murphy Savings Bank -- a small fortune in 1984. His checking account told them he had spent some of his nest egg on a new car, and later on the down payment for a house, but he had also socked away a good quarter of his paycheck every month.

"Not a risk-taker," said Brandy. "No stocks, not even bonds. I wonder why he didn't have an IRA -- or a tax-sheltered annuity? Most university faculty do."

"I'm afraid it's too late to ask him," said Dan.

"Can you trace that money back any further?" Brandy asked. "This is a weird financial picture -- as if he wanted that money easily accessible, if, say, he had to cut and run. I wonder if he got it legally?"

Dan traced another bank transfer, this time from the bank where Land had kept his savings during graduate school in California. But the mysterious lump sum had come there as over $36,000 from yet another bank, and increased during its stay. There were weekly small deposits, probably from a part-time job, but the withdrawals outran them, and he used some of the interest from his CD's.

"Shall we try to access his grad school records?" Dan asked.

"Later," Brandy replied. "First let's follow the money to the end of that trail."

Her instinct was right: Land's nest egg had not come to Berkeley from Chapel Hill, home of his supposed alma mater, the University of North Carolina. The money had been transferred from Oxford, Mississippi. The Oxford account had been opened with $27,800.00. No transfer from another bank. And during the four years when it should have been depleted steadily, if Land had been a full-time college student in another state, the money had grown to the amount transferred to Berkeley.

Brandy was ready to quit when the numbers began to blur before her eyes. Then she had a hunch. "Just two more items. Land's tax returns for the years this account was open in Oxford, and his records from Chapel Hill."

The university's records showed Land as a full-time student -- but the IRS showed him working as a realtor in Oxford, Mississippi! "He went home on weekends and vacations and sold houses?" Dan suggested.

"And made enough in his spare time to sock away nine thousand dollars in four years? Dan, we're onto something here. Get his undergraduate records."

Land had been a B to B- student for two years, then an A student when he hit his stride in his junior and senior years. "So he was there," said Dan.

"Was he?" asked Brandy. "Call up his other university records. The financial stuff. Did he have a scholarship, a student loan? What about housing?"

And there they drew a blank. Except for four years of courses and grades, there was no evidence that Everett Land had ever attended Chapel Hill.

"What would he have needed to get into graduate school?" Brandy asked.

"His transcript, the GRE, some letters of recommendation," Dan replied. "I suppose the letters could be faked, but there's always the chance that someone at Berkeley knows the person whose name you've forged."

"Well, we can check those records tomorrow if Berkeley still has them. IRS computer records go back a few more years. Let's see what Land did before he became a real estate agent and forger of college records."

There they encountered a blank wall: Everett Land filed his very first tax return the year he went to work in Oxford. The same year he was supposedly a freshman at Chapel Hill. "So he was older than he claimed," said Brandy. "No kid straight out of high school would get that real estate job."

"Brandy, we don't know the whole story," said Dan. "He could have had family connections -- "

"He had that lump sum of money. Maybe he stole it."

"More probably it was an inheritance."

"But he faked his undergraduate records -- yet he obviously knew what he was doing at Berkeley, or he wouldn't have gotten his doctorate. He had to have a bachelor's degree from somewhere. We're looking at an identity change, Dan. Who was this person before he was Everett C. Land?"

Chapter Three - Bonnie and Clyde

Brandy eventually found herself unable to follow what was happening on the computer. It was 10:08pm, and she had to be up early.

"I'll take you home," said Dan.

Her car --

Church would pick her up in the morning if she called at breakfast time. "Thanks," she said wearily.

Dan put on his hat. Not a cap advertising some team or local business, but a narrow- brimmed summer cotton hat. It gave him a sophisticated look at odds with the atmosphere of Murphy, Kentucky. You could always tell the university faculty, no matter how many years they lived here.

"You know," Dan said as they went out to his car, "when I said I wanted to see you again, I didn't mean just to help with computer stuff. How about dinner tomorrow night?"

"I'd like that," said Brandy, "but I'm a police officer. If I get caught up in a case like today -- "

"I understand," he told her." I'll call first."

As before, he walked her to her door, and kissed her. There was that same wonderful excitement she had felt the first time. "Thanks for your help," she said, reluctant to part even though she had no energy even to talk, let alone do anything more strenuous.

What would it be like to sleep in his strong arms?

"I'm glad to help," Dan said. "Let me know what else you find out about Rett. And I didn't mean I wouldn't help with more computer searches. It is fascinating."

"Okay," she replied, lingering in his embrace.

His warm chuckle vibrated in his chest. "Go to bed, Brandy. Tomorrow night we'll try a more conventional date." He brushed her lips again, then turned her to the door.

Her answering machine was blinking. Carrie had left a message; "If it's before eleven pm, call me when you get home." As it was only 10:23, she dialed Carrie's number.

"You gonna be able to sleep?" Carrie asked.

It took Brandy a moment to remember. Then she said, "Yeah, I'm okay. I've been working on another case."

"You mean you were at work all this time?" Carrie asked. "Honey, you'll burn yourself out. Do you want to talk about the Perkins case?"

Another time, Brandy would have confessed to her best friend how she had frozen on the scene -- but that was after the shooting, when the horrified helplessness descended.

Moments when people, especially children, lay suddenly, unexpectedly dead, brought back that day when she was ten years old and had seen her brother lying still and pale in the street, blood running from beneath him like red paint.

"I -- handled it," Brandy said, realizing the last thing she wanted was to relive the scene she had managed to forget for a few hours.

"They were my clients," said Carrie. "I've been rereading my notes, wondering if there was something I could have done to prevent what happened today."

For once it was Carrie who needed to talk. "Listen -- why don't you grab what you need for tomorrow and come over here for the night? You can give me a lift to the station in the morning. I left my car there."

Both women were tired, and both had to be alert in the morning, so Brandy didn't suggest the few beers they might have drowned their sorrows in on another night.

She let Carrie talk. She had been sent twice in the past three months to check on the welfare of the Perkins children.

"I could see fear in their eyes," she told Brandy, "but until Matt Perkins broke the girl's wrist, they made excuses. Lily had a black eye one time, and the night she got up the courage to leave him she told me Matt raped her every time he got angry. God, why won't these women press charges?"

"Because they think they need a man to take care of them, even a vicious brute of a man. They don't think they can make it on their own."

Brandy had seen it as often as Carrie had. Even when the wives pressed charges, they were dropped before the husband came to trial.

Carrie sighed. "It's enough to make me appreciate George. He cheated on me, but at least he never abused me."

"Not physically," said Brandy. She knew how badly Carrie's ex-husband had hurt her friend.

"Yeah." Carrie raised her cup of herb tea in a toast. "Here's to taking care of ourselves!"

"With a little help from our friends," Brandy amended.

Carrie took a sip of the steaming brew. "You know," she said, "I expected to find you more upset than I am. Usually senseless deaths hit you especially hard."

"I had a little help from another friend," Brandy confessed.

"Church?"

"A new friend. Dan Martin."

"So that's working out," said Carrie. "Is he nice?"

"Very. He came down to the station to help me on the computer. He didn't know he was helping me get over the Perkins fiasco."

"Oh. Another business relationship. Maybe that's all women should try to have with men."

"We're going out to dinner tomorrow," said Brandy. "I'm not sure why. We don't have much in common."

"But you like him," said Carrie.

"Yes, I like him. He's smart, and so polite he's almost old-fashioned."

"Older?" Carrie asked.

"Mid-thirties. You realize it won't be that long before you and I reach thirty?"

"I already feel as old as the hills," said Carrie. "Do you think this could be the one?"

"Carrie, I hardly know him!" Brandy protested. "Besides, it's always the same: at first they're intrigued that I'm a cop. Then they find out about the long hours, eventually somebody takes a shot at me, and pretty soon here comes the ultimatum: the man or the badge."

Carrie studied her friend. "You're a strange one, Brandy Mather. With that badge you accepted responsibility for the whole populace of Murphy -- but when it comes to the commitment everybody else takes so casually, all you can do is put obstacles in its path."

The next morning, Brandy told Church what she and Dan Martin had turned up. "Professor Land apparently faked his way into graduate school, taking on a whole new identity. I want to find out who he was before that."

"That money," said Church. "Almost thirty thousand -- a lot back then. You think he's connected to a robbery, sneaked off with the loot and let accomplices go to jail?"

"Or embezzled from wherever he worked before becoming Everett Land. Maybe it was ransom money, or a payoff. He could be the brains behind some big heist. This guy spoke seven languages, Church. It could be an international thing. Maybe he had the brains to plan it, but then couldn't take a life of crime. So he skipped out, changed his name, and ended up here in the middle of nowhere."

"You think somebody connected with that money finally caught up with him?"

"Could be. Could be anything. I love this case, Church. The more complicated it gets, the better!"

But Police Chief Harvey Benton didn't love the case. When Brandy made her report, including requests for help from the Oxford, Mississippi, police department, he told her, "This case is closed, Detective Mather. Closed. The man died of natural causes. Now get your butt out of here and do some real police work!"

Stunned, Brandy returned to her desk. Everyone in the department received such a dressing down occasionally -- but only when they had failed badly, as with the Perkins situation yesterday. She had never before been scolded like a naughty child for going beyond the call of duty.

The only neglected item on her desk was the Perkins paperwork. She toyed with the idea of ignoring it and going back into the computer as Dan had shown her, looking for criminal evidence on Everett Land. Maybe later.

"10-17 at the Bank of Murphy!" That was the silent alarm, indicating a robbery in progress.

The bank, which had just opened for the day, was right around the corner. The police arrived to see a man come running out carrying a flour sack, undoubtedly stuffed with money. He raised a rifle at a uniformed officer. The shot went wild, but police and civilians hit the sidewalk as the man ran for a double-parked pickup.

Brandy caught only a glimpse of the red-haired woman in the truck, but from the hair, the man's flour sack and Day-Glo orange hunting cap, and the silvered sunglasses both wore, she recognized Chase and Jenny Anderson, wanted in three states for bank robbery, murder, assault, grand theft auto, and assorted lesser offenses. They hit banks in small cities like Murphy, where clerks were not protected behind bulletproof glass. First thing on a payday, they staged a surprise attack, emptying the tills, then fleeing in a stolen vehicle that would later be found abandoned.

The Andersons robbed a bank only once every three to five weeks, never on an exact schedule, reclaiming the element of surprise whenever they struck anew. They had pulled off five successful robberies in the past six months in Illinois, Kentucky, and Tennessee. The Murphy police were determined not to let them make it six.

The truck was a blue four-wheel drive Ford pickup. Anderson jumped into the driver's seat and careened around the courthouse square to head out of town toward the lake.

That was not the shortest way out of Kentucky, but it afforded a tangle of back roads. Brandy and Church dashed for the unmarked car, and pulled out behind a pair of black- and-whites. In the rearview mirror, Brandy saw a couple of tardy uniforms caught by Chief Benton, and sent into the bank. Everyone wanted to chase the robbers; no one wanted to interview witnesses.

They radioed the state police, but the Andersons knew as well as they did that the nearest post was thirty miles from Murphy in the opposite direction. The sheriff's patrol was already on the way.

The line of vehicles barreled out of Murphy, headed toward the Land Between the Lakes. If the Andersons wanted to escape south into Tennessee, there was only one bridge. The state or county could get a patrol car there before the Andersons arrived.

Realizing that, the fugitives would probably swing north -- if their intent was to get out of the state.

But there was nothing to keep them from losing themselves amid the dozens of roads between Murphy and the lake. The Andersons had hunted and fished this area all their lives. They knew the back roads so well that in every previous robbery they had eluded pursuit and disappeared.

"All cars!" the radio erupted. "We got a citizen's band report. Blue Ford pickup nearly hit a couple of kids while illegally passing a stopped school bus!"

"That's them!" Brandy exclaimed, and hit the gas.

Church flipped on the CB radio. Most of the police cars no longer had them, but the radios were cheap and their use free, so they were still more common than cellular phones.

The CB was full of voices this morning. "You damned idiot!" someone yelled. "Eastbound 94, you got a asshole in a blue pick'emup burnin' rubber. Watch out -- he'll try t'blow ya off the road!"

"Well, we know where he is," said Brandy, hitting the siren to clear the morning traffic on the two-lane road.

The police dispatcher's voice closed off the CB chatter to announce, "The bank guard's dead. Anderson shot him first thing through the door. Get those bastards!"

A new voice on the CB shouted angrily, "Hey -- mo-ron! You got yer ears on? Think you own the damn road?"

"Oh, God," said Brandy. "One of these cowboys gets mad enough, they might try to stop him. The Andersons have already killed four people."

Church untangled the CB mike from the police equipment. "Breaker one-nine. Breaker one-nine. This is the police. Report whereabouts of blue 1987 Ford pickup driving recklessly east on 94. Suspects are armed and dangerous. Do not attempt to apprehend! Report location. Repeat, do not attempt to stop the truck!"

When Church let go of the switch, the reports walked all over one another as good citizens tried to help. "Turned off on 1713," came through the garble.

Then, a different voice, "They just passed us, driving like -- " A cracking noise, followed by "Oh, my God! They're shooting at us!"

"Stop your car! Let them go!" Church ordered into the mike as Brandy swung their car onto 1713. Then, when there was no immediate reply, "Are you hurt?"

"No," the voice replied, shaken. "They kept going."

"They must have their CB on," said Brandy, speeding up on the nearly deserted road. They were the first car on the chase now, having just come up on the 1713 turnoff when they got the message. Those ahead of them had to come back to the turn, but in the rearview mirror Brandy could see the blue light of at least one black-and-white behind them.

The road wound, then bounced over low hills. They waved as they passed a green Chevy with a CB antenna, pulled over to the side -- their informants.

"Where does this go?" asked Church.

"Take your choice," said Brandy. "Most of the roads on either side will lead back to 94. Straight ahead, we'll come to a split in about three miles, right to the university biological station, left to Red Hill Landing."

"So unless they take a turn somewhere along here, they'll dead-end at the lake."

"I think they're trying to get far enough ahead so we won't see them turn," Brandy told him, gunning the car again. "They may be trying to reach a hideout, or a hidden vehicle. Maybe even a boat."

The truck was now in sight, the police car slowly gaining -- but as Church picked up the bullhorn to tell them to pull over, Jenny Anderson leaned out the passenger's window with a shotgun.

Brandy swerved, heard the shot, but nothing hit the car. Church pulled his gun, but did not fire, speaking calmly into the bullhorn. "Cease firing and pull over." He was the coolest cop under fire Brandy had ever known.

As Brandy fought to stay on the narrow road, Jenny Anderson discharged the second barrel. A thrrruunnnch! of shot hit the roof and top of the windshield, but the safety glass did its job. A couple of cracks extended downward from the crazing, but Brandy could still see to drive.

Church fired at the fleeing truck. Mrs. Anderson drew back inside, but there was no other perceptible effect. The truck sped on as fast as ever.

"Dammit, they know they can't escape!" said Brandy.

"They're desperate," replied Church. "I'll try to get the tires."

On his third shot, one of the pickup's back tires blew, and the vehicle swerved into the ditch.

Brandy screeched their car to a halt, and she and Church remained inside as the black-and-white drew up.

"Give yourselves up," Church ordered through the bullhorn. "Throw out your guns."

The driver's side truck door opened. Anderson dropped into the ditch and began firing.

"Shit!" whispered Church as he and Brandy ducked below the dash. The windshield was rendered opaque, then gave and fell in on them. Brandy grabbed the rifle out of its case and knocked the remaining glass out of the frame.

Anderson's next shots were accompanied by sounds of glass and metal shattering as he peppered the front of the car. The radiator spat steam and boiling water.

Two other cars with lights and sirens rolled up and stopped. The suspects should have known it was hopeless, but both husband and wife continued shooting.

"Goddamn Bonnie and Clyde!" said Church. "They want us to kill them!"

"Probably," Brandy agreed. Rifle lined up through the steering wheel, she entered her private world, sighted carefully, entered the zone -- and fired.

Chase Anderson screamed.

Jenny Anderson scrambled back through the truck and out on her husband's side, crying, "Chase! Oh, my God! Chase!"

The police converged, guns at the ready.

Chase Anderson sat in the ditch, nursing a bloody hand. His rifle lay next to him, and his wife finally surrendered her shotgun.

"Great shooting, Brandy," said Church.

A state patrol officer asked, "You meant to hit his hand?"

"I had a rifle with a sight," Brandy explained. "There was no reason to kill him."

"And no reason not to," commented Melissa Blalock. In her late thirties, she was the oldest woman on the Murphy police force, a plain, no-nonsense, hard-working cop. She looked at Brandy for confirmation of her feelings about the trash now being read their rights. "Brandy -- you're hurt!"

"Let me see!" Church said, turning her toward him.

Only then did Brandy feel the burning sting of the cut on her forehead, the trickle of blood down her face. "It's a glass cut," Church said, reaching back into the car for the first aid kit. "Thank God it missed your eye."

But the cut took three stitches. By the time Brandy was back at the station, it was early afternoon. Chief Benton gave her the rest of the day off. "I'm sorry I yelled at you this morning," he added. "Good work today, Mather." From Benton, it was high praise.

The cut didn't really hurt, and the blow hadn't been hard enough to give her a headache, so Brandy decided to clean up her house -- just in case Dan Martin finally came in this evening. She was vacuuming when the phone rang.

"Oh. Hi, Mom."

"Brenda, why did I have to hear on the radio that you were in a shootout this morning?"

"Just part of my job, Mom."

"Churchill told me you were injured."

"I wasn't shot."

"I didn't say shot. I said injured. And badly enough to be sent home. I'm coming over."

"No! I mean -- I'm just on my way to get some groceries. How about I pick you up, and we can both get some?" If her mother came over, she'd stay all day.

Melody Mather fussed about the bandage on her daughter's forehead. "You shouldn't be out running around. You should be in bed. Doesn't it hurt?"