It was Thursday morning, the day after the body had been discovered. The previous evening there had been scant opportunity to search the area where the angler had received his prodigious strike. By the time Ettinger and Deputy Walter Hess had taken statements from Sam and his client, a banker from Atlanta named Horace Izard III, then waited for Doc Hanson to drive in from Bridger, pronounce the bloated, trout-belly white body dead and arrange for transportation to the county morgue, it had been growing dark. Ettinger had wanted to wade out to the logjam herself, but neither she nor Hess had packed waders with felt soles, which were necessary to keep one's footing on the treacherous boulders. Sam had offered his services, and, when they were politely declined, his waders. Client Izard had seconded the offer, but as both men wore a twelve shoe, and as neither had been able to hit a toilet bowl with any consistency in more than a decade, owing to inaccuracy of aim with appendages their bulging stomachs concealed from view, their waders were comically large. It had been decided that Walt, who was only marginally taller than Martha at five-foot ten, would wade out in Izard's waders, which looked more hygienic than Rainbow Sam's, despite traces of vomit.