I could get inches from her. I could shine my flashlight on her face to see if it’s the woman with the British accent. And if both of them are Elisa Vandersteel. But I know better. I need to work my way to the body one little piece at a time, patiently, carefully. Pretending I don’t know what might be up ahead in the dark. Pretending not to care. I’m not supposed to have feelings or reactions about anyone I take care of or investigate but of course I do.

I glance back at the distant racket of Harold and Rusty unloading the trolleys and unzipping the big black vinyl bags. I hear the low murmur of the two of them talking.

“Do you mind?” I trade my small tactical light for Marino’s big one.

I crouch down in the middle of the path, looking all around, making sure I don’t compromise or interfere with whatever might be out here. The turbo six-thousand-lumen light is made of metal and weighs several pounds. It has a wide lens with six LEDs, and the brilliant beam paints over the path, igniting hard-packed sandy minerals like quartz and silica.

They sparkle like something alive wherever the light touches, and bits and slivers of broken glass flicker and flare when I illuminate the area around and under the bicycle. I do this slowly, thoughtfully, and I pay attention. Once a scene has been entered and intruded upon, there’s no going back. There’s no undoing it, and when possible I take all the time I need no matter how much it might irritate everyone else. I point the light past the bike, another ten feet to the body.

I can see more clearly where her heels dragged through the loose surface as she was pulled a short distance; at most eight inches, it looks like from here. I can only suppose this must be what Investigator Barclay misinterpreted as evidence of a struggle. She has on grayish-looking footie-type socks similar to what the cyclist had on but I won’t be able to tell until I get closer.

“I’m not sure what’s happened out here but I’m not liking it,” I say to Marino. “Something’s very off about this. It’s as if her bike went down right here where the lamp’s access pane is open, the bulbs shattered and glass everywhere. Yet her body’s over there? And I doubt she rode a bike in her socks. I need to get closer. If you don’t mind hanging back for a minute, and keep taking pictures.” I get up from my crouched position.