In 2003, the Shoofly Pie introduced an intriguing and unique detective: forensic entomologist Nick Polchak. So popular did Polchak become that author Tim Downs has now published five Bug Man novels. And now for the first time: the first two Bug Man novels under one cover. Shoofly Pie Within minutes of a murder, the first fly arrives at the scene. Soon there are hundreds, then thousands, and each one knows the victim's story... Thirty-year-old Kathryn Guilford turns to Dr. Nick Polchak, the Bug Man, to help her learn the truth about the apparent suicide of her longtime friend and onetime suitor. Polchak introduces her to a mysterious world of blood-seeking flies and flesh-eating beetles. But there's a problem... Kathryn Guilford has a pathological fear of insects. Now she must confront her darkest fears to unearth a decade-long conspiracy that threatens to turn her entire world upside down. Chop Shop Young Dr. Riley McKay has worked hard toward her career in pathology. But her promising future is threatened when suspicious activities -- bungled autopsies, concealed evidence, and unexplained wounds -- incriminate her supervising pathologist at the Allegheny County Coroner's Office in Pittsburgh, Dr. Nathan Lassiter. When Riley is ignored by her seniors and threatened by Dr. Lassiter, she turns in desperation to Dr. Nick Polchak, the Bug Man, to help her uncover the truth. From a handful of tiny maggots, Nick and Riley begin to unearth the facts... The flies on the wall can talk. Forensic entomologist Nick Polchak is listening. Tim Downs is a professional speaker and writer and has worked as a nationally syndicated cartoonist for fourteen years. His first book, Finding Common Ground , was awarded the Evangelical Christian Publishing Association's prestigious Gold Medallion Award. He has coauthored two other works of nonfiction with his wife, Joy. Tim and Joy are on the staff of Campus Crusade for Christ and live in Cary, North Carolina, with their three children. Chapter 1 Cary, North Carolina, April 21, 1999 Nick Polchak rapped his knuckles on the frame of the open doorway. He glanced back at the Wake County Sheriff’s Department police cruiser blocking the driveway, orange and blue lights silently rotating. “Yo!” Nick called into the house. “Coming in!” A fresh-faced sheriff’s deputy in khaki short sleeves poked his head around the corner and beckoned him in. Nick wondered where they got these kids. He looked younger than some of his students. Nick stepped into the entryway. Dining room on the right, living room on the left. It was a typical suburban Raleigh home, a colonial five-four-and-a-door with white siding and black shutters. A mahogany bureau stood just inside the door. At its base lay three pair of shoes, one a pair of black patent leathers. Nick shook his head. He knew the layout by heart: stairway on the left, powder room on the right, down a short hallway was the kitchen, and the family room beyond that. Nick paused in the second doorway and took a moment to study the young officer. He stood nervously, awkwardly, constantly checking his watch. His right hand held a handkerchief cupped over his nose and mouth, and he winced as he sucked in each short gulp of air. Nick followed the officer’s frozen gaze to the right; the decomposing body of a middle-aged woman lay sprawled across the white Formica island in the center of the kitchen. Nick knocked again. “Officer … Donnelly, is it? I’m Dr. Nick Polchak. Are you the first one here?” “I was just a few blocks away, so I took the call.” He glanced again at his watch. “Our homicide people ought to be along within the hour.” Nick began to stretch on a pair of latex gloves and stepped around to the victim’s head. “The name on the mailbox said ‘Allen.’” “Stephanie Allen. That’s all I’ve been able to get so far.” The deputy nodded silently toward the family room, where a solitary figure sat slumped forward in a red leather chair with his face buried in his hands. Nick raised his own left hand and wiggled his ring finger. The deputy nodded. “I didn’t get your name—did you say Kolchek?” “Polchak. Nick Polchak.” “You don’t sound like you’re from around these parts.” “I’m from Pittsburgh,” Nick said. “And I’d say you’re not.” The deputy grinned. “How’d you know?” “You left your shoes at the door.” “They don’t do that in Pittsburgh? I guess they don’t have the red clay.” “The police don’t do that in Pittsburgh. They figure if you’ve got a dead body in the kitchen, you’ve got more to worry about than dirty carpets.” The body lay faceup, stretched out diagonally across the island under the bright kitchen fluorescents. “Very handy,” Nick said. “Too bad I don’t find them all like this.” The head rested in one corner, with medium-length blond hair flowing out evenly on all sides. There were deep abrasions and contusions on the neck and lower jaw. The body was in putrefaction