“Did she understand she wasn’t to touch or disturb anything or return here until you said it was all right?” I then ask.

“What’s the matter? You think I forgot how to do my job?” He stares straight ahead as rain slaps the windshield.

“You know I don’t think that.”

“I made it clear to her not to touch anything or step foot here until I told her otherwise.” He’s busy with his phone again, his thumbs typing fast.

“That doesn’t mean she obeyed your directive,” I reply. “Maybe there were items inside the house that she wanted to retrieve or tuck out of sight. Or she might have feared that once the mother gets here there’s no chance of getting back inside. People do all sorts of seemingly irrational or unwise things when there’s a sudden death. Most of the time they don’t mean to make our jobs harder. They don’t mean to cause trouble.”

“Why do I feel like you’re lecturing me right now?”

“You feel that way because you’re frustrated. You feel powerless and that makes you angry and impatient. Understandably.”

“It’s not understandable because I don’t feel that way. I’m sure as hell not powerless. The other day at my gym I deadlifted three-fifty. That’s not exactly powerless.”

“Of course that’s not what I’m talking about.” I don’t react to his rudeness and silly macho boasts. “I have no question about how physically strong you are. This isn’t about how much iron you can lift.”

I open my door and the sound of splashing water is much louder.

Chapter 30

CHAPTER 30

COLD RAIN LASHES MY FACE AND SOAKS MY HAIR and clothes as I step out of the truck.

My attention returns to the flower bed, to the roll of bright yellow tape. I head there automatically like a divining rod, and the wind rushing around the eaves makes a whistling howl that is unearthly and foreboding.

I crouch down by the wooden bulkhead doors, painted the same dusky blue as the house, pitched at a steep angle and bordered in old bricks. Rain coldly smacks the top of my head and back. What feels like buckets of water splash around my soaked black nylon boots as I look around at broken purple asters, at brown-eyed Susans that have been flattened and bruised. My opinion doesn’t change.

Someone began securing the perimeter and got as far as the front railing and then stopped. For some reason this person left the roll of tape in the flower bed next to the bulkhead doors. They’re closed tightly but I can’t tell if they’re locked. I contemplate my next move as the wind moans in a lower octave.