Oh, someone was about to see it live. There was no doubt the media was flashing that story everywhere.
“Shit, Blackhawk.”
Yeah, tell him about it.
“Are you guys okay?” he asked.
Were they?
Well, barely.
“We’ve been better. This brings us to the favor. I need you to call Gabe, and I need the local morgue confiscated. We have techs heading to the shooting scene, but I want to have any more bodies handled here.Salt Lake Cityis over an hour away—closer to two. The nearest FBI office is too far, but the ME is playing dirty games,” he said, telling him all about that.
Greyson was making notes.
Gabe had told him he was responsible for these two, and to deal with their antics.
Since they closed shit, he was happier with that and less upset with the antics.
Blackhawk and Cantrell marched to the beat of their own drummer.
That was for damn sure.
“Holy shit. He dumped and ran?”
Unfortunately.
“Yeah, so we have no forensics, very little on the victims’ autopsies, and we’re behind the eight ball.”
He pointed out one thing.
“Why didn’t you just ask for agents? Gene is on desk duty. You need a partner.”
That hung there.
“Oh, Jesus Christ,” he said. “You’re not telling me that he’s actively working an FBI case while injured, andON PAIN MEDS,are you?”
Ethan was honest.
“Nope. I’m not telling you any of that. You came to that conclusion on your own.”
There was silence.
“I have a headache,” Greyson admitted. “A suspiciously Native American one with a side of White dude who knows better.”
Well, at least they were on the same page.
Right?
“About that favor.”
Greyson sighed.
“I’ll get you what you need, but tell the bear to mind his business as in don’t let Gabe hear about this. If he sees that news story…”
Ethan covered for him.
“He was walking a partial fingerprint from the local law to the fax shop to get it to the office inSalt Lake City,” he stated. “That’s the most desk jockeying that anyone can do when on the injured list. It’s not his fault the killer is cuckoo.”
