The Empty Chair by Jeffery Deaver

procedure is to move an injured victim away from the scene before you set the chopper down.”
    “Standard procedure?” Lucy Kerr asked abrasively. “Sorry, but we were a little worried about Ed. Trying to save his life, you know.”
    Sachs didn’t respond. She eased into the shed slowly so she wouldn’t disturb the dozens of wasps that were hovering around a shattered nest. But whatever maps or other clues Deputy Schaeffer had seen inside were gone now and the wind from the helicopter had mixed up the topsoil so much that it was pointless to even take a sample of the dirt.
    “Let’s get back to the lab,” Sachs said to Lucy and Jesse.
    They were returning to the shore when there was a crashing sound behind her and a huge man lumbered toward them from the tangle of brush surrounding a cluster of black willows.
    Jesse Corn drew his weapon but before he cleared leather Sachs had the borrowed Smittie out of the holster, cocked to double-action, and the blade sight aimed at the intruder’s chest. He froze, lifted his hands outward, blinking in surprise.
    He was bearded, tall and heavy, wore his hair in a braid. Jeans, gray T-shirt, denim vest. Boots. Something familiar about him.
    Where had she seen him before?
    It took Jesse’s mentioning his name for her to remember. “Rich.”
    One of the trio they’d seen outside the County Building earlier. Rich Culbeau—she remembered the unusual name. Sachs recalled too how he and his friends had glanced at her body with a tacit leer and at Thom with an air of contempt; she kept the pistol pointed at him a moment longer than she would have otherwise. Slowly she aimed the weapon at the ground, uncocked it and replaced it in the holster.
    “Sorry,” Culbeau said. “Didn’t mean to spook nobody. Hey, Jesse.”
    “This’s a crime scene,” Sachs said.
    In her earphone she heard Rhyme’s voice: “Who’s there?”
    She turned away, whispering into the stalk mike, “One of those characters out of Deliverance we saw this morning.”
    “We’re working here, Rich,” Lucy said. “Can’t have you in our way.”
    “I don’t intend to be in your way,” he said, switching his gaze into the woods. “But I got a right to try for that thousand like everybody else. You can’t stop me from looking.”
    “What thousand?”
    “Hell,” Sachs spat out into the microphone, “there’s a reward, Rhyme.”
    “Oh, no. Last thing we need.”
    Of the major factors contaminating crime scenes and hampering investigations, reward and souvenir seekers are among the worst.
    Culbeau explained, “Mary Beth’s mom’s offering it. That woman’s got some money and I’ll bet by nightfall, the girl’s still not back, she’ll be offering two thousand. Maybe more.” He then looked at Sachs. “I’m not gonna cause any trouble, miss. You’re not from here and you lookit me and think I must be just bad pay—I heard you talking ’bout Deliverance in that fancy radio gear of yours. I liked the book better’n the movie, by the way. You ever read it? Well, don’t matter. Just don’t go puttin’ too much stock in appearances. Jesse, tell her who rescued that girl gone missing in the Great Dismal last year. Who ever-body knew was gone to snakes and skeeters and the whole county tore up about it.”
    Jesse said, “Rich and Harris Tomel found her. Three days lost in the swamp. She’d’ve died, it wasn’t for them.”
    “Was me mostly,” Culbeau muttered. “Harris don’t like gettin’ his boots dirty.”
    “That was good of you,” Sachs said stiffly. “I just want to make sure you don’t hurt our chances of finding those women.”
    “That’s not gonna happen. There’s no reason for you to get all ashy on me.” Culbeau turned and lumbered away.
    “Ashy?” Sachs asked.
    “Means angry, you know.”
    She told Rhyme and told him about the encounter.
    He dismissed it. “We don’t have time to worry about the locals, Sachs. We’ve got to get on the trail. And fast. Get back