Bad Moon Risin'. [Deputies.]

The sheriff had arrived just a few moments before Mathias had showed just, just a few moments though, long enough to get briefed by Deputy Sirus Watson, the older Deputy had just went to observe the scene in silence. He was tired, and he'd already secured the scene. The Sheriff though? He was already pulling on those latex gloves of his, having already rolled the sleeves of his uniform shirt up to the middles of those thick forearms of his, his hat laying quietly on the hood of that old bronco he'd driven up to the scene. He was careful of where he stepped, careful not to step in any foot prints, careful not to plant his boots where they shouldn't be as he watched in silence. A murder, like this? It was an ugly, savage, hateful thing that happened to a good man which put the taste of bile in his mouth as he watched with those quietly angry eyes of his. He didn't look up as Mathias walked onto the scene, he didn't speak back, at least not initially, He didn't have to say a word to Mathias, because the Apache already knew what was on his mind, or so the sheriff hoped. He'd only gestured to the corpse when his old friend asked, and when the question of the whos and the hows? 

"One of the Clays, Eli. Apparently there was a vehicle that made a whole mess of noise outside of the Crow's Roost He didn't think too much of it, but his father asked him to go see what it was about, none the less. Didn't see a thing, but lucky for us, he didn't touch the body." With a bitter tone to his voice. The Clays weren't friendly with the sheriff, but at the very least it hadn't hurt the investigation, mostly because they were just outside of their property line. The Sheriff was silent for the most part.. Mathias, since he was looking, would find foot prints. One set, was from Deputy Watson. The other set? They were brushed out, but if he tried? He'd be able to just barely make out a boot print, a size ten. A few of them, even. Either it was one perpetrator, or a group of them who all weighed the same and had the same brand of boots, and the same size. Regardless, the tracks were faint, and it was clear that someone had tried to cover them. 

The Sheriff was getting on the radio around this time, mostly because he lacked a pretty an' proper cellphone. He leaned against the door of that beat up bronco and reached inside of it to pull the handset from the dash, depressing that button before speaking in his growling baritone.

C> "I need a deputy to bring the camera and casting equipment. We have possible boot prints, maybe something more substantial. We'll also need the finger printing kit."

Now, with that said, he cut those eyes to Mathias. He didn't check for boot prints himself, but he knew if Mathias was looking, then they were there, he pulled away from his truck as he moved over to that body laying in the dirt and crouched down to it, where Mathias was. "Don't suppose you want to be the one to inform his children." With a deadpan tone. It wasn't that he shirked the responsibility, it was just the fact that it was better for an Apache to tell an Apache.. that, and he wasn't exactly welcome on the Reservation because of his feud with the Tribal Police Chief.

Rubble debris embedded within the dirt road crunched underneath her chestnut colored wedged-heeled loafers that were parallel to her open car door while sat sideways in the seat of her Black Ford Focus. The redundant intervals of time where the swatch of blue and red lights probed her vision tested her patience and prompted her to maneuver the rest of her body out of the vehicle. Her strut was mechanized as if she were limited to the seams and creases of her charcoal gray slacks and blazer. A magenta colored dress shirt layered beneath was the only vibrant feature in her demeanor. Flat-ironed dark brown coarse tresses of her hair were disciplined with a black headband captured into a pony tail. Her cheekbones were at a vantage at a close par with her her lower eyelids that coincided with her stern gaze as she retrieved her notepad that was bound in black leather. Now, her presence reeled in closer range to the huddle of voices at the scene.

Upon arrival of the homicide scene itself, her dark brown irises flashed in translucent motion to Malcolm, the Sheriff, and the deputy. With her dry enunciation that had a bit of a Houston glide to her speech, she murmured "People..." She punctuated that word with a solemn nod before she took steps forward to observe the body Mr. White-Horse. It was as if he were a marionette of serial killer's fantasy. Murders such as these were a "demonstration." When going over community profiles of the citizens in the first few months of entering the department, she learned that the man was a by-the-book advocate for representing Otero County. His politics were indifferent to partisanship which caused her social analysis behind the crime to buzz with a question: Why would someone attack a clean political candidate? The wooden sticks that were used to navigate the barbwire were distressed wood that were likely to be broken from a fence for a makeshift weapon. She idly strolled to where she saw the tire tracks that trailed in westward to the ranch. The torque of her wrist made to scribble further along her notepad was finalized with of the other variables in trying to understand the process of the scene.

Once her observations hit a wall, her feet took her back to stand within audible distance to hear the Sheriff, Malcolm and the deputy exchange words. She was more of a receiver than one who delivered information. Until all of the analyses were made, she would propose her questions. Either way, the humdrum desert community they monitored scorched with scandal as much as the climate itself.