As Marino and I were walking here, he informed me that the girls are fourteen years old. Their names are Anya and Enya Rummage—as in the ROOMage and not the RUMmage sisters, God help them, I can’t help but think. What unfortunate names for identical twins. As if they don’t get ridiculed enough, I’m guessing. I give them another reassuring, sympathetic look as if all of us are out in the miserable heat and in this mess together, which of course couldn’t be further from the truth.

“I’m wondering exactly where you were when you noticed the body,” I say to them as if I’m perplexed and need their help.

“There.” Anya in pink points toward the distant trees behind us where Rusty and Harold are assembling the tent scaffolding.

“So you were walking through the woods, following the path toward the clearing,” I reply.

“Yes, and we saw the bike on the ground.”

“Then we saw her.”

“When you were entering the park from John F. Kennedy Street, did you see anyone? Hear anything at all? I’m wondering how long she might have been here when you found her.”

They say they didn’t hear or see anything unusual as they cut through the park. They didn’t hear anyone talking and certainly they didn’t hear shrieks or someone yelling for help. As both of them continue to recount what happened, I get a picture of them walking along the fitness path the same way Marino and I did a while ago.

When they reached the clearing they saw what they at first assumed was a bicycle accident. It was almost completely dark by then, and there was no one else around. The park was empty as far as they could tell except for “animals,” they continue to say. A squirrel, possibly a deer, they tell me. I ask what time it was when they discovered the bicycle and the woman’s body, and the girls shake their heads. They don’t know.

“Then what did you do? Do you think you can describe for me exactly what happened next?” I ask, and both of them look at Marino for approval, and he nods. “How close did you get to her?” I inquire.

“Tell her. It’s okay,” he reassures them. “She’s a doctor and is trying to help.”

But it’s not quite the right thing to say. The twins stare in the direction of the body as if it’s not too late for a doctor’s intervention.

“I’m a doctor who works with the police,” I explain to them without using any of the buzzwords like medical examiner, coroner or forensic pathologist. “We need to find out what might have happened to the person you discovered. It’s my job to figure out now she got hurt and died.”