Seeing blood doesn't bother me, I had seen it many times before, but something about being alone in the middle of nowhere with the top half of my body inside the empty interior of a bloody Suburban gave me the creeps. I instinctively pulled my head out and slammed the door. I knew it was a mistake as soon as I did it. First rule of evidence, don't disturb the crime scene. A little thing, but I felt like a rookie. I shouldn't have closed the door. I was beginning to think I wasn't in charge. I took a few breaths and looked out over the front hood of the vehicle, down the ravine and up the other side. No indication of movement anywhere. The SUV looked okay from what I could see. I turned away from the vehicle, maybe to head back, maybe to look around. I did neither immediately. I gasped. There just fifteen feet from where I was standing sat Rick Jimenez, the other reporter, as he had described himself that morning, for the town's newspaper. His face was contorted and covered with dried blood. His white shirt completely soaked in blood now drying in the hot sun. He was dead. Book 1 of the Jim West novels