White River Burning. John Verdon

of the victims’ legs from the knees down. The skin tone was brown except on the feet, where it was a dark purple. There were bruises on the shins and abrasions on the ankles.

      Shucker’s expression suggested he’d been given more information than he’d wanted.

      Torres continued. “In a few minutes, we’ll come back to some marks on the feet that could be very significant. But first we’ll proceed in the normal order of our victim close-ups, starting at the head and working our way down.”

      Displaying photos of both men in a split-screen format as he spoke, he pointed out numerous contusions on their faces, torsos, and legs. His voice was tight with an apparent effort to control his distress—but the details of his commentary were vivid enough to provoke a response from the blind sheriff.

      “It does sound like them boys truly got the shit beat out of them.” To say his tone was uncaring would overestimate its warmth.

      Torres stared at him. He tapped a key and brought up a final pair of photos on the split screen—closeup shots of the soles of the victims’ feet.

      Kline leaned forward. “Jesus, what on God’s earth . . . ?”

      Turlock gazed at the screen with no more reaction than a boulder.

      A frown darkened Beckert’s face—a cloud passing over Mount Rushmore.

      The mayor looked confused and worried.

      Burned deeply into the sole of each victim’s left foot were three capital letters, a grotesque monogram. It brought to Gurney’s mind an image from an old Western—red-hot letters on the end of a branding iron, smoking and hissing into the side of a steer.

      KRS