back onto the table. “It’s a dead bird. Why we running lab on it?”
“You owe him, Mouton,” Blaine said, his dark eyes taking in the perimeter. “And this ain’t no regular dead bird. Feels like an iceberg case with lots underneath we can’t see.”
“Ah, hell,” Wynn muttered, absentmindedly rubbing the shoulder he’d had surgery on after falling during a foot chase.
“Take a look,” Nate said, holding the letter toward Blaine but not allowing him to touch it since he wore no gloves. It was regular copy paper with typed words centered on the page. Times New Roman font. Size 12.
“Twisted bastard,” Wynn said, looking over the sheriff’s shoulder.
Birdie, Birdie in the sky
You will pay an eye for an eye
Tell your whore mother to draw a line
Or her precious baby will soon be mine
“A rhymer,” Nate commented, sliding the letter in the bag he held in his other hand. He sealed it. “Anger’s directed toward the mother, so the kid’s a tool.”
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