“I don’t know. Usually there’s lots of people and I stay out of the way of bikes,” the girl in yellow says slowly in the same blunted tone, and no matter what I was told, I can’t quite believe what I’m seeing in the uneven illumination, the chiaroscuro created by our flashlights.

During one of our badly connected phone conversations as Marino was on his way to pick me up, he mentioned twins. I didn’t give it much thought but to stand before them especially under the circumstances is extremely disconcerting. I find myself literally doing a double take as I look from one to the other, both of them dark-haired with identical unflattering helmetlike cuts.

The matching unstylish glasses they have on remind me of yearbook pranks, of inking nerdy black frames on the face of a rival’s photograph. The girls are built the same, under five feet tall and heavy. They wear striped T-shirts, shorts and sandals that fortunately for me don’t match. If the twins weren’t wearing different colored clothing I’m not sure I could tell them apart.

“Wait here, okay? You know what to do, don’t you? You stay right here and don’t go anywhere. Stay. And I’ll be back.” Barclay talks to the girls as if they’re a lower order of a pet such as a rabbit or a lizard.

He strides toward us, and I check my phone to see if there’s any word from Rusty and Harold.

I HEAR THE TRUCK as I’m about to call, and I press END.

The rumble of the diesel engine is unmistakable, and I look back in the direction of John F. Kennedy Street. I can see headlights cutting through the park as a white CFC truck that’s bigger than an ambulance bumps off the pavement and creeps under trees. The low-hanging branches scrape the boxy metal roof, making a terrible screeching sound that has the effect of nails on a chalkboard.

“Good. Maybe we can get going here so we can figure out who we need to be notifying and talking to,” Barclay says too authoritatively as he reaches Marino and me. “The sooner we can process the scene and get the body to the morgue, the better,” he adds as Marino ignores him.

My eyes have adjusted to the contrasting shades of light and shadow, and I can better make out the twins some distance from us where Barclay was a moment ago. A female uniformed officer is with them now, asking if they need water or food. She wants to know if they’d like to wait in an air-conditioned patrol car. She says it as if they’ve been asked this before, and they shake their heads no. I have a pretty good idea what will happen next.