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“It’s been a thing for over twenty years. The big kickoff, when the world was exposed to this new artform, was a show that took place back then. The seeds of rogue taxidermy were planted in Minneapolis. The first art was mixed and multimedia, animal skins or hides combined together with other items.” He looked at the barbeque fork stinger on the sculpture and back at me. “Nothing is off limits. The key is that it’s a no catch, no kill artform. If animals are used, they must have been found dead. Maybe roadkill or other non-human-involved deaths. Imagine a fish mixed with a squirrel with a clock stuck in the gut. Rogue taxidermy changed the entire world’s view of what your father used to do. If animals aren’t killed for the purpose of creating a trophy, the act of ‘recycling’ them via rogue taxidermy even appeals to PETA.”

“I didn’t know any of that.”

“You haven’t paid attention, that’s all,” Calloway said.

I thought about the timing. Was it coincidence that my father had disappeared in November twenty years ago, a month after the show that Graham had mentioned? Maybe. Now it seemed I was becoming inclined to tie these strange goings-on to my father.

However, though I hadn’t paid attention to rogue taxidermy, Wilmot would have. Anything about taxidermy would have garnered his attention.

So what, though?

“These are human bones.” I returned to the case in hand. “Maybe the results of murder.”

“Or maybe it’s all some sick person’s interpretation,” Calloway said. “Another step, beyond even rogue taxidermy.”

He’d definitely put his teeth into the idea that Wilmot was somehow involved. I didn’t know how to fight that other than with proof, and I could see how keeping an open mind about the possibility was the right thing to do anyway.

Graham said, “Look, I couldn’t resist coming here. You’re right, this doesn’t seem to be any sort of taxidermy, but there’s something about it that gives off the same vibes. The artist’s need to push themself to create something that speaks to their creative process using dead creatures.”

I looked at Graham. “Do you have any sort of sense of who did this? Do you know of someone?”

“No.”

Calloway’s cell phone rang. He answered quickly.

“Yeah? Okay, that’s good news. I’m listening. No … fucking … way …”

Calloway looked at me with big eyes as he listened to the last few seconds of the call before disconnecting it.

“What?” I demanded.

“We’ve got some news, Hazel.”

“There’s no chair around here, Sheriff. If you’re waiting for me to sit down, it’s not going to happen. I can take it, whatever it is.”

Calloway shook his head. “I’m so sorry to tell you this …”

“Damn it, Calloway, spit it out.”

“The first skeleton has been identified. He was a homeless man up in Tucson. There are dental records because of visits by local dentists to some shelters.” He paused but not for long. “The records connected directly to a man named Wilmot Dylan.”

“Well. Damn.” My chest hollowed some, but I didn’t get wobbly at the knees. I looked out toward the sun, planning to blame its rays for the tears that would surely come.

They didn’t. I didn’t shed even one.

CHAPTER

9

THERE WERE QUESTIONS and inconsistencies. The age of the skeleton at death did not match Wilmot’s timeline. My father had been over six feet. The coyote sculpture, put upright, probably wasn’t that tall. Time might account for shrinkage in height, but the bones would have shown that, and they didn’t immediately. It was early days yet.

I didn’t fall apart with the news, at least not visibly. I knew my focus had been compromised, but it didn’t matter at that point. The Tucson people arrived and took over the scene as I pulled Calloway aside and told him about my visit to the Smoots. He was curious about what I’d done, though he hadn’t seen anything to make him think that Jerry or Joey was involved with what was going on. He was glad to have the information, though, and would follow up, maybe stop by the Smoots’ place himself.

Dismissed by the Tucson folks and our trip up to the city delayed for now, Graham and I walked to the Jeep, and I gave him a ride back to town.

He was sticking around, apparently, even if a more official investigative team was going to work on the case or cases. He wasn’t sure how he could help, but Calloway asked for a few more days and he didn’t have anything pressing back at the university in Boulder, where he was a professor. New classes started in two weeks.

We made that sort of small talk on the way back into Black Vulture, though he ended up telling me more about himself than I told him about me. I sensed that he was embarrassed by mentioning Wilmot, and he kept up a stream of details like the specific classes he taught, the recent death of his dog, and the online order he was going to place this evening to get more appropriate clothing.