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punishments.
    A couple of months ago Assistant Director Raymond Kunze had sent her down to the Florida Panhandle, smack-dab in the path of a category-5 hurricane. In less than a year since he officially took the position, Kunze had made it a habit of sending her on wild-goose chases. Okay, so perhaps he was easing up on her, replacing danger with mind-numbing madness.
    This time he had sent her to Denver to teach at a weekend law enforcement conference. The road trip to the Sandhills of Nebraska was supposed to be a minor detour. Maggie specialized in criminal behavior and profiling. She had advanced degrees in behavioral psychology and forensic science. Yet it had been so long since Kunze allowed her to work a real crime scene she wondered if she would remember basic procedure. Even this scene didn’t really count as a crime, except perhaps for the cows.
    Now as they continued walking, Maggie tried to focus on something besides the chill and the impending dark. She thought, again, about the fact that there was no blood.
    “What about rain?”
    Almost instinctively she glanced over her shoulder. Backlit by the purple horizon, the bulging gray clouds looked more ominous. They threatened to block out any remaining light. At the mention of rain, Donny picked up his pace. Anything more and Maggie would need to jog to keep up.
    “It hasn’t rained since last weekend,” he told her. “That’s why I thought it was important for you to take a look before those thunderheads roll in.”
    They had left Donny’s pickup on a dirt trail off the main highway, next to a deserted dusty black pickup. Donny had mentioned he asked the rancher to meet them but there was no sign of him or of any other living being. Not even, she couldn’t help but notice, any cattle.
    The rise and fall of sand dunes blocked any sign of the road. Maggie climbed behind him, the incline steep enough she caught herself using fingertips to keep her balance. Donny came to an abrupt stop, waiting at the top. Even before she came up beside him she noticed the smell.
    He pointed down below at a sandy dugout area about the size of a backyard swimming pool. Earlier he had referred to something similar as a blowout, explaining that these areas were where wind and rain had washed away grass. They’d continue to erode, getting bigger and bigger if ranchers didn’t control them.
    The stench of death wafted up. Lying in the middle of the sand was the mutilated cow, four stiff legs poking up toward the sky. The animal, however, didn’t resemble anything Maggie had ever seen.

THREE

     
    At first glance, Maggie thought the scene looked like an archaeological dig revealing some prehistoric creature.
    The cow’s face had been sliced away leaving a permanent macabre grin, jawbone and teeth minus flesh. The left ear was missing while the right remained intact. The eyeballs had been plucked clean, down to the bone, wide sockets staring up at the sky. Though the carcass lay half on its side, half on its back, stiff legs straight out, its neck was twisted, leaving the head pointing nose-up. Maggie couldn’t help thinking the animal had been trying one last time to get a look at who had done this to her.
    Maggie guessed at the gender. Anything that would identify the cow as male or female had been cut away and was gone. And again, there was no blood. Not a speck or a splatter. What had been done was precise, calculated, and brutal. Still, she needed to ask.
    “Forgive the obvious question,” she said carefully, treating this like any other crime scene, “but why are you absolutely certain predators did not do this?”
    “Because bobcats and coyotes don’t use scalpels,” a new voice said from behind her. “Not the last time I checked.”
    This was obviously the rancher they were meeting. The man came down the hill letting his cowboy boots slide in the sand, picking up his feet over tufts of grass then sliding down some more. Even in the fading light, he maneuvered the