“WHAT THE HELL are you doing here?” came a voice from behind them, just as Tom was hiking his work boots on. They all turned together, and when Richard saw Chip Priewe standing at the mouth of the Anasazi Bridge by the metal A-frame sign, it felt as though ice-cold river water had suddenly seeped into his stomach, filling it.

“Answer me,” said the police chief, smacking on Clorets gum. “This bridge is closed to the public. What are you doing here?”

“Why’s that?” Tommy asked, shaking droplets from his hair. “Why is it closed?”

Priewe studied them. “Safety reasons. How did you get yourself all wet there, Thomas?” He chewed briskly, hand rested on the butt of his holstered service revolver at his hip.

“We saw the fish,” Richard said, trying to think of a way out of this. “From the roadway. Dead fish, floating in the river. We’re wondering what caused it. Any ideas?”

The uniformed chief peered over the side, taking in the spectacle. “Not a clue. But you people need
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