“How long are we talking about?” I look at what they have to assemble with nothing to guide them but flashlights. “Can we be up and running in twenty minutes max?”

“I think so.” Harold crouches, and then Rusty does, their headlamps flicking over the roller storage bags unzipped and spread open all around us.

Inside are folded aluminum frames, polyurethane-coated black sidewalls and an awning fabricated of heavy-duty black polyester. Still tied down on the trolleys are the requisite sandbags, ground stakes, the scene cases, the boxes of gloves, and the plastic-wrapped packages of disposable protective clothing.

Any additional supplies we might need including water and nonperishable food such as protein bars will be inside the big truck. And I plan to head that way soon. I need something to drink and to get out of the heat for even a few minutes. More importantly, I want to call Lucy, and I don’t intend for anyone to hear our conversation. I’m going to ask her about a twenty-three-year-old woman named Elisa Vandersteel whose driver’s license lists a London address. I want to see what Lucy can find out about her, and we need to start now.

It doesn’t matter that the identity isn’t certain. At the moment and after what I’ve seen so far, a confirmation will be little more than a formality. The rest of the story is a baffling mystery, as are other disturbing events that continue to unfold, and we should get started on any line of inquiry that might be helpful.

Who was Elisa Vandersteel? Why was she in the United States? What was she doing in Cambridge, and was riding her bicycle along the river at sunset a habit? If she did it routinely, then a stalker or some other dangerous person could know.

“I’m sorry to make this so inconvenient,” I explain. “But the thing we really have to worry about is up there, and I don’t mean God.” I point up, indicating the bridge, the surrounding buildings, and also news helicopters that will show up the minute the word is out. “We have exposure from every direction including overhead.”

“That’s what we get paid the big bucks for,” Rusty says, and he says it a lot.

“Do you know what killed her?” Harold asks.

“I’ve not examined her because I don’t want to get that close until we have privacy and adequate light. But from a distance I can see signs of trauma. It appears her body was repositioned and moved.”

“Well that’s bad,” Harold says. “You’re sure she’s been tampered with?”

“There are drag marks.”

“Crap,” Rusty replies. “A couple kids found her?”

“And who knows what all they did before the police got here,” Harold adds somberly.