One young guy, maybe 25-years-old tops, and already losing his sandy-colored hair, pushed on anyway.  He was from a local radio station.  "Did the victim have any I.D.?  Do you have any idea who he was?"

"No I.D.  No idea who he was."  Cooper was already getting testy.  Couldn't these idiots hear what he was saying?

"What about the rumor that the body was mutilated in some way?  Can you say anything about that Lieutenant?"  This from a perky brunette with a pageboy haircut and freckles over the bridge of her nose.  She couldn't have been more than 23 or 24.  Cooper knew she was new at the local daily paper.  

Was it just him, or were these pests getting younger all the time, he wondered.   "I have no comment on that or on anything else at this time.  The sheriff's office will issue a statement after the autopsy is done and we know more."  With that Larry Cooper turned on his heel and headed for the yellow crime scene tape about 50 yards away at the edge of the woods.

As he walked purposely toward his destination he heard a female voice coming up behind him saying, "Did the perpetrator use a big gun or a little gun -- or was it a knife or a garrote?"

Cooper whirled around, his face feeling hot because he was trying to control his temper, "How many times do I have to tell you people..." and he stopped short when he saw the mischievous grin on the face of Deputy Sergeant Linda Dunlap as she caught up with him.  "Gotcha!" she smiled.

"Is it just me, or are those clowns getting younger and stupider every day?" he snarled.

"C'mon Larry.  This is a small market.  The papers and the radio and TV stations can't afford anybody with brains or experience.  So, what do you want me to do here?"  She was all business now.

"The ME's finishing up now, and the techs from the state are about through combing the scene.  I want you to take a look so you have a feel for what we got here.  Get on your radio now and make sure the people we've got in the parking lot there don't let anybody else out here."

Linda Dunlap pressed the button on her mike unit on her right shoulder, made some terse commands, and ducked under the yellow tape along with Lieutenant Cooper.

About 20 yards into the alder thicket was a large Evergreen blackberry bush.  A number of thorny branches had been neatly clipped away and carefully placed in large canvas duffel  bags for further examination.  The pruning had been necessary to fully reveal the corpse, which had been partially hidden under the bramble. They could see the County Medical Examiner, on his knees beside the body of what appeared to be a man, laying on his back with his pants and underpants pulled down to his ankles.  His white sneakers were still on his feet.  As Sergeant Dunlap drew nearer she saw that the body had, indeed, been mutilated.  There was just a patch of bloody tissue, about the size of a silver dollar where there had once been genitals and a penis.  There was a bloody smear around the corpses mouth, which was agape, as were the surprised-looking eyes.

The ME slowly got to his feet, his knees making an audible snap.  He took off his latex gloves with a snap and put them in a plastic bag that he had produced from a black leather doctor's bag.  He looked at the two deputies and said, "That's about all I can do here.  Looks like a small-caliber bullet, most likely a .22 or .25 just behind the left ear.  His penis and scrotum were severed in a very precise manner with a sharp instrument.  Probably a scalpel or razorblade of some kind.  These -- ah -- male appendages were then stuffed into the deceased's mouth."

Lieutenant Cooper cringed as he felt his own manhood shriveling.  "Geez, I hope the poor slob was dead when that happened."

"I'm fairly certain he was," said the ME, a balding man with a fringe of gray over his ears and around the back of his head.  His name was Doctor Frederick Nelson, but everybody, including his patients in his usual job as a family practitioner, just called him Fred.  "There was no sign of a struggle, and very little blood around the incision.  If he'd been alive during the -- ah -- surgery, that particular area would have bled profusely."

"Man, I know I'd of put up a struggle if someone was trying to cut off my tally whacker," said Cooper, almost in a whisper.  "The state guys about done?"

Dr. Nelson was back on one knee picking up various tools of his trade and putting them in his little black bag.  "I don't really know Larry.  You'll have to ask them.  One of them mentioned that one of their investigators would be flying in from Olympia as soon as possible.  He would have come with them, but he was detained for a while."

Usually the state crime unit didn't get called into this sort of thing until the locals requested them, but Cooper wasn't too surprised in their interest.  After all, I-5 was a major north-south corridor, a combined state and federal property.  He wasn't sure who owned the property where the body was discovered.  It might be some kind of government right-of-way, or it might be privately owned.  He didn't really care who took charge of the investigation, but his boss probably would.  The sheriff was an elected official, and Bill Henson might figure it would look pretty good to the voters if his department solved this murder.  Politicians and reporters.  Throw in some more clowns and have a real circus.

One of the state crime site technicians was a young black woman, about five-five, short hair, and slightly overweight.  The nametag on her sky-blue coveralls said "Morgan."  She approached Cooper, Philips and Dunlap, pulling off her yellow rubber gloves.  She had been rummaging around and under the blackberry bush, and had some pieces of dried leaf in her hair and a small scratch on her left cheek from one of the thorns.  "I think we're about done here Lieutenant.  We'll pack those blackberry clippings up and ship them to the lab in Olympia.  Might be some fibers or skin on them.  Otherwise, whoever did this didn't leave much.  The soil is fairly moist from the Memorial Day rains, but those people who found the body trampled around so much that I doubt we'll get much from the footprint casts we made."

Cooper nodded and replied, "Do you know when your investigator will be here?  I'd like to get the body into the morgue and get my people back on patrol."

"Let's get him bagged up now.  We'll still need a few of your people here to keep the site secure.  The state will provide some troopers to help out too.  I'm pretty sure Captain Fisher will be here any time now.  Damn three day holidays always screw us up for days afterwards."

Linda Dunlap was staring at the body.  "God what a horrible thing to have happen to you.  I mean to be mutilated like that."

Cooper said to her, "What?  No feminist jokes?"

"No.  I read in a book about the Indian wars that white cavalrymen used to mutilate Indian women the same way.  Put their vaginas over their saddle horns as trophies or adornments.”

“Ain't it amazin' how we humans think of all these creative ways to humiliate, torture and kill each other,” said Cooper while he continued to look at the corpse.

Linda Dunlap was still staring at the body too, then she looked up a Cooper and said, “I read or heard somewhere that homosexuals sometimes sexually mutilate the victim when they kill them.”

“I was thinkin' the same thing.  I don't know.  I've never seen anything like this before.  I guess we'll just have to start looking for people who might have seem something.  It's gonna be tough though with so many people passing through here all the time.  Maybe those damn reporters have some use after all.  We'll give `em a description of this guy, see if they can help us find some witnesses might have seen something.

“Assign a couple deputies here for now Linda.  I better go sweet-talk some reporters.”

The weather was typical for early June in northwest Washington State -- cool, with light rain in the morning, giving way to sunshine and mild temperatures in the afternoon. Joe McDaniels and his best friend, Charlie Williams, were sitting at a round patio table on Joe's cedar deck, which was attached to his doublewide mobile home.  They were enjoying the pleasant weather, but neither talked about it.  They weren't talking about much of anything that day.  Good friends don't need to carry on a running dialog to be comfortable.  They had first met years before when they were both stationed at Whidbey Island Naval Air Station.  Joe had been a Master at Arms, Senior Chief Petty Officer and Charlie a Marine Gunnery Sergeant assigned to Shore Patrol duty.  There is a traditional animosity between sailors and Marines, but they had one important common bond-they were both alcoholics, and had decided to do something about it.  They attended their first Alcoholics Anonymous meeting at the Naval Station on the same night.  

Oh, sure, there had been slips and relapses for both of them, but they kept going back to meetings and working the 12 steps.  Joe now had over ten years sobriety, and Charlie nearly that long.

Joseph T. McDaniels was an average-sized guy-five-ten, about 175 pounds, with salt and pepper hair.  He was one-sixteenth Cherokee, and his sharp features and dark complexion reflected that.  Although he had no official tribal affiliation, he was proud of his heritage.  Charlie Williams, on the other hand, was a truly large man.  He stood six-four, weighing 250 pounds.  No flab.  His short, Marine-cut hair was jet black with strands of gray.  He was full-blooded Nez Perce, the tribe of Chief Joseph.  Although he was a member of the Colville Confederated Tribes in North Central Washington, he had chosen to stay in the western part of the state when he retired from the Corps.  When McDaniels had asked him why one time, Charlie had replied, ”Over there, it's too damn hot in the summer, too cold in the winter, and the wind blows the rest of the time.  I'll put up with the rain over here.“

Both men had enlisted in the service right out of high school, and each had retired after 20 years, much of it in military law enforcement.  They were enjoying this quiet, pleasant Saturday at Joseph T. McDaniels' Mobile Home and Recreational Vehicle Park when the big 32-foot, off-white motor home carrying the two women pulled in.

  The rig looked brand new.  Expensive.  Usually, when you saw a motor home like this, it was occupied by people in their sixties or seventies-”empty nesters.“  Joe and Charlie were both surprised to see the two women alight.  The driver was a sturdy looking natural blonde with silver beginning to overtake the gold.  She was in her mid-fifties, dressed in men's blue jeans, flannel shirt and scuffed white Nikes.  There was nothing unusual about her appearance, except for her eyes.  When she looked at Joe he saw two pale blue orbs that were absolutely the coldest eyes he had ever seen.  It was unsettling, and Joe sensed she was sizing both Charlie and him up before she spoke.

”Any spaces available?“  she asked in a husky voice that had known too many cigarettes.  Maybe cheap booze too.

”Yes, Ma'am.“ Joe answered.  ”It's early in the season, so you can pretty much take your pick.“

”What all is included with the hook-up?“

”Water, electricity, and sewer.  And if you need propane, I can handle that for you at an additional charge.“

The woman turned to her traveling companion, a young woman of about 25, with long, straight, light brown hair, who asked, ”How much?“

Joe gave her the daily, weekly and monthly rates.  She pulled a wad of twenties from her purse, peeled off enough for a week, and handed the money to Joe.  ”If we like it here, we may decide to stay longer.“

This young woman was anything but ordinary looking.  She was almost as tall as Joe.  She had a very slender figure, small breasts under the baggy sweater she was wearing.  Her hair reached almost to her waist.  Her upper lip turned upwards in a very sensual way.  Her nose was small and slightly up-turned.  Her eyes were a light brown, with gold flecks.  They seemed to notice everything around them.  She looked like she could be a professional model.  Joe had heard that models made pretty good money.  Maybe that's where the wad came from.  Even though she was half Joe's age, there was an instant, guilty attraction to her.  He admonished himself that he was old enough to be her father and tried to put this foolish feeling aside as he made out the receipt and helped get their rig hooked up in the space farthest away from the highway.

Joe learned his guests' names during this process.  The older woman was named Molly Hager, the younger was Tawny Downing.  They were both from Seattle.  No other information was volunteered nor asked for.  Joe figured money talked, and bullshit walked.  With business slow right now, Joe needed money more than bullshit.

From the time the two women had pulled in, Charlie had remained passive and quiet.  He had helped Joe with the hook-up without saying a word.  But his face was saying something.  Joe just couldn't read it.  

When Charlie finally spoke, it was in a rich measured baritone, almost a lilt like an Irish brogue and with the hard "R" common to many Native Americans who had grown up on reservations.  "Think the older one is a misandrist."

”What's that?  Some Nez Perce word?“

”No - Greek.  It means man-hater.  That Molly don't like men I think.  'Course she could just be a misandronist, but that usually goes with bein' a misandrist."

"Okay, I give up.  What the hell's a misandronist?"

"That's someone who hates things like clubs or rooms or organizations for men only."

"You mean you think they're lesbians?"  Joe asked.

"No.  I didn't say that.  I just got a feeling that Molly Hager don't like men at all.  Probably the kind sends male-bashing jokes to all her women friends through the E-mail.  Not that I care.  She ain't my type.  That pretty young gal, Tawny, now she seems to like men okay, but I got a feeling she's scared as hell of something.  I think she's on the run."

"When the hell did you start speaking Greek?  You been lying to me all these years?  You gonna tell me that you're not really Nez Perce, that your name's really Aristotle or Plato or something?"

"Nah, I just like fuckin' with your white Cherokee head," grinned the jolly bronze giant.

"Do the Nez Perce have a word for man-hater?"

"Never heard of one.  Nez Perce women love their men."  The grin had turned to a smug smile.

Joe shrugged and smiled a little.  Charlie never ceased to amaze him with his wealth of knowledge of things trivial and arcane.  He had learned over the years to trust the big Indian's intuition.  "You think maybe they might be running from the law?"

"No.  Something scarier, maybe."

Joe mulled Charlie’s words over that evening as he got ready for the Saturday night dance in the basement of one of the churches in town.  It was open to all A.A. members and their guests.  A good local country band made up of ex-drunks would be playing tonight.  He wasn’t much of a dancer, but he enjoyed the music and the camaraderie.  There were usually a few cops and former cops at these events.  Maybe he’d bring up the subject of his two mysterious guests with them.

Joseph T. McDaniels joined the Navy right out of high school in 1966.  There had been money for college available, but he figured he’d let the G.I. Bill take care of that when he got out, and maybe see some of the world while he was at it.  Because he and his dad had done a lot of hunting while Joe was growing up, and his related respect for weapons, he chose to strike for the Gunner’s Mate rating.  He went to the basic school, called ”A“ School, and a few months later was rated in his specialty.  He took some more specialized training, advanced to pay grade E-3, and found himself on a jet bound for Vietnam, all just after his nineteenth birthday.

His first tour in ”The Nam“ was pretty routine.  He was assigned to river patrol boats, Swift Boats, as a machine-gunner.  Basically they patrolled the rivers and deltas looking for boats carrying contraband that might be used by the VC or NVA, regular soldiers from the North.  Occasionally a hidden sniper would shoot at them from the shore, and he’d dutifully fire off a few bursts in return.

While he was there, he discovered alcohol.  He still remembered his first beer.  A Budweiser that smelled and tasted of formaldehyde.  Well, hell, the other guys seemed to be enjoying theirs, so he had another—and another—and so on.  It was 15 years later that he decided he had a problem with booze.  Another two years went by before he did anything about it.

After a year in Vietnam, Joe was transferred back to San Diego and assigned to the firing range.  Basically, he cleaned and maintained the old M-1 rifles used by recruits when they went there for their one day of qualifying.  Once in a while he even got to replace the firing pin on a BAR or Thompson submachine gun, which were only used for demonstration purposes.

After that, he volunteered to go back to Vietnam and the boats.  The money was pretty good, and it was tax-free.

This tour, the duty wasn’t so routine.  His boat and one other were sent out to drop off some military personnel wearing camouflage clothing and face paint.  They waited, hidden by darkness, for their return. When they did return, all hell broke loose.  There was heavy automatic weapons fire on these mysterious guys from shore.  Joe grabbed his machine gun and began a barrage of fire aimed at the enemy flashes.  The little bastards hidden in the jungle started shooting at Joe’s boat, as well as the guys in camouflage crashing out of the jungle and into the water on their way back to the boats.

Joe and the others on both boats kept up their return fire until all were aboard, and they got the hell out of there.  Joe didn’t even realize he’d been wounded until several minutes later when the shooting stopped and they were safely in the middle of the river headed back to base.  Miraculously, no one was seriously injured.  The crews of both boats received Bronze Stars; Joe got a Purple Heart.  And they all got gloriously drunk.  It was several years before Joe realized that the mysterious men in camouflage were Navy Seals on one of their secret forays.

Joe re-enlisted while in Vietnam, collected a ten thousand dollar tax-free bonus, and made the Navy his career.  When he advanced into the Petty Officer pay grades, he was often assigned to temporary duty as a Shore Patrolman.  He liked police work, and when the Navy established the Master at Arms rating, a permanent law enforcement specialty, he applied, was accepted for training, and became a military cop.