Mayor Larry Pillsbury’s face was pockmarked and fleshy – in spite of this, he was built nothing like the doughboy whose name he shared. His body was as skinny and angular as his face was fat. And right now, he was knelt on the bank of Ol’ Derry, his knees sunk an inch deep in the mud, running his bony hands over his beefy, pulpy features, moaning softly.

“Sumbitch,” he kept saying. “Sumbitch.”

Officer Jefferson B. Trestlehorn was still examining Caleb’s body. Ralph Ames stood silent sentinel a few feet away watching Jefferson go on about his business with a critical eye, almost like he’d been invited to a barbecue where the host couldn’t get the pit going.

“You think we oughta wait fer the Chief?” Ralph inquired.

“I ‘spect Brent County’d take this one away from him anyway,” Jefferson mused. “It’s his boy, and it ain’t like we get a lot of murders ‘round here.”

“You cain’t tell nobody,” Larry muttered despondently. “You cain’t let no one know it was me found him. I got a constituency to keep.”