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Ken Goddard was beat. You only had to look at the floor to tell what sort of a day he’d had. A pair of bloody boots, the severed head of a cougar-its awful eyes wild and accusing-some wolf skulls, and a fine dust of powdered rhino horn . . . It was a dirty business, but someone had to nail those creeps who made millions out of endangered species. As chief of the world’s only wildlife forensic lab, it was the only job he had ever wanted. Aside from writing crime novels and running a ranch, that is. Shoot! He’d been too busy to pick…