As I think of lightning deaths I’ve worked I’m reminded that at first blush it almost always seems we’re dealing with a violent assault. Clothing can be ripped, tattered or torn completely off, and I think of the T-shirt in the shrubbery. Shoes or boots will split wide open or come off like the Converse sneakers. Jewelry melts or breaks, and I envision the segments of gold chain we found. The broken ends looked shredded, and that’s consistent with an electrical discharge. The current hits a metal object, dramatically heating it up, and it disintegrates.

Often victims are critically injured when the explosive force of an electrocution or a lightning strike hurls them to the ground. It’s not unusual to die from blunt-force trauma, and it could be that’s what killed Elisa Vandersteel. But I have my doubts.

CHAPTER 30

MY COVERALLS CRINKLE. THE thin white material is slippery and whispery as I sit back on my heels to take a closer look at the unpaved path and the nearby grass.

It’s past eleven, and the stench of decomposition has made the air deader and thicker. It’s close to unbearable in here. But at least we’re not dive-bombed by flies. The tent helps keep them out, and as a rule they’re not active at night, not hunting for putrefying wounds and orifices in which to lay their eggs.

I study glass fragments as small as grains of salt that rained over the bicycle, sparkling like diamonds on the frame, the tires, and blades of grass.

“Not that I’m an expert in exploding lightbulbs,” I say to Marino as I return to the bike’s rear tire. “But right here where she went down there’s a fair amount of glass that’s been pulverized into dust.”

“I’ve seen that before in electrical fires and arcing. Lightbulb glass is really fragile, and you give it enough juice it will blow to smithereens.” He squats close to me, and I feel his heat and smell his sweat. “But some of what we’re noticing probably is from the powder that coated the inside of the bulbs.”

We look up at the empty lantern with its open access door, and below it a whitish residue is visible on the black iron frame. When the glass fragments blew out, they created a trail of what looks like fairy dust sparkling and twinkling across the fitness path, through the lawn, to the trees.

In my head I play it out like animation, envisioning the lamp violently exploding and the bicycle going down. The two events happen simultaneously as Elisa Vandersteel is jettisoned from the saddle. If that’s what occurred, it could explain the tiny particles of glass on top of the downed bicycle. It might be the only explanation for the sandlike fragments caught in her hair.