‘‘Where’s Johansen?’’ I asked Lamar. I’d lost track of him in the combined process of getting resources assigned to the scene and scrounging gear from my trunk.

‘‘He’s still up there, talkin’ to DNE and DCI. He just doesn’t want to leave. He ain’t hurt, but I’m gonna have to get him out of here.’’

‘‘Yeah, but let me talk to him again first, okay?’’

‘‘Just for a while.’’

I could imagine the conversation between Johansen and the Iowa Department of Narcotics Enforcement and the Iowa Division of Criminal Investigation. A state agent being murdered in the woods was bad enough, but to have heavily armed and unknown suspects to boot…

‘‘Shit, they were just sittin’ on a patch, Lamar… What went wrong?’’

‘‘I don’t know,’’ Lamar said, stopping and turning around. ‘‘I thought you might.’’

‘‘Hell,’’ I said, ‘‘I haven’t worked dope for five or six years. I don’t even known who they thought they might have.’’

That was very true. We worked all dope cases that way within the department. Need to know only. I was our intelligence officer, but I wouldn’t pressure them for the information unless I thought they might have something I needed. Lamar, as sheriff, had automatic ‘‘need to know,’’ but seldom asked.

‘‘Oh,’’ he said. He sounded a little disappointed, and turned back up the trail.

‘‘But I’ll know shortly,’’ I said. ‘‘Just a minute…’’

Since we were stopped, I took a spray can of insect repellent out of my camera bag. I sprayed it liberally on my face, hands, inside my hat, inside my shirt, on my waist, and finally on my ankles. As I was replacing the can, Lamar spoke.

‘‘Got somethin’ against bugs?’’

‘‘Yeah,’’ I said as we started back up the long, winding path to the crime scene. ‘‘I hate chiggers and mosquitoes.’’ I reached back into my camera bag. ‘‘You want some?’’