‘‘I think this is Howie Phelps,’’ I said, looking up at the two agents.

‘‘You know him?’’ asked Dahl.

‘‘If it’s Howie, and I think it is, I busted him for dope about ten-twelve years ago.’’ That was to tell Dahl two things; that I had made dope arrests of my own, and that they had been made while Dahl was still working Capitol Security. I mean, he likely knew a lot about dope cases, maybe a bit more than I did. But I wanted him to know that we were on a pretty even playing field.

I looked at Dahl. ‘‘It’s true,’’ I said, and grinned at him. ‘‘I used to hate old fart deputies who said they knew everybody and really didn’t. I really do know this dude. Had an a.k.a. of Turd, if that rings any bells with you?’’

He shook his head. ‘‘They’re all turds. No bells. What kind of dope?’’

‘‘Grass and meth.’’

‘‘Much?’’

‘‘No, small time. Maybe a pound of grass at a time, just enough meth to get his ego up, so to speak.’’

‘‘He seems to have had a shotgun,’’ said Hester. ‘‘Did he usually go armed?’’

I looked at her. ‘‘Never, as far as I know.’’

‘‘And a small water pump, and a battery, and some hose,’’ she said.

‘‘That time of year,’’ said Dahl. He was right there. The little pile of equipment would be used to pump water from a little stream up into the patch.

‘‘Seems to me,’’ I said, looking back down at the remains, ‘‘that Turd here’s got a girlfriend… lives with her, in Freiberg.’’ Freiberg was about five miles from Basil State Park. Right on the Mississippi River. ‘‘Give me a while, I’ll think of her name.’’

I stared at Howie, then took out my camera and snapped a couple of shots. I put my camera back, and said, to nobody in particular, ‘‘That was a pretty powerful rifle.’’

‘‘We have over fifty 7.62 mm casings, about thirty 5.56 mm casings, and probably a lot more to come. In four different locations so far,’’ said Hester.