"Joggers. It's always joggers. Forget bloodhounds. Forget search parties. Forget psychics. Just release the joggers."

FBI Special Agent Tom Roe always brings the humor. Says it lightens things up. Good PR for the Bureau. Shows the agents aren't stereotypical stoic robots with sunglasses.

The trench coats are the exception. They're true to form. A special shade of black. Like an undertaker.

The coats are fitting for a cool, fall morning in Minot. Tom stands near the Souris River in Oak Park. The fairgrounds sit half the town away to the east.

Yellow tape and squatting officers huddle near the water. The lazy churn of the Souris echoes off the bandshell behind them. Makes the river sound louder than normal. Crinkles the illusion of a benign, unassuming body of water. Two male bodies lay face down on the river bank. Look like meaty hay bales.

"That's an old joke," Special Agent Beth Haen says. She wears a matching trench coat.

"An oldie, but a goodie. Like the North Dakota radio stations. If you're into country gold," Tom says.

"Also an old joke. The radio is better than I thought would be out here," Beth says.

She hates the hick stereotypes. Mainly because she used to live them. And they're not all bad.

The one about the ass-kicking country woman? It came to life one day at the bank. A guy came in with a shotgun. Beth handed over her deposit. Plus a shit-kicking heel to the son of a bitch's groin.

The stereotype died that day, too. The world opened up. Beth jumped right in. Decided to head to school. Become an FBI agent.

"Fair enough. Do you want to check the bodies out? Or can you see what I see from here?" Tom says.

Another of Tom's pop quizzes. Beth is the junior of the two. Means there are no right answers.

"You mean that there's no blood?" Beth says. "And that there are restraint marks around all four ankles?"

"Nope. I see something else," Tom says.

Of course. Beth sips her coffee.

"Both their faces are shot up. Point blank," Tom says. "Know anyone violent with that kind of flair?"

"Wil Reynolds. Same person we've been chasing for a week," Beth says.

"Actually, it's been six days. Not quite a week," Tom says. Of course. "And, yep, looks like Wil isn't done killing."

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