No jogger in sight. Milo didn’t comment on that as he explored the edges of the scene.

Even without her foot protruding, the woman would’ve been noticed soon enough. This part of the park was relatively secluded but could be reached by any number of pathways or a simple walk across rolling lawn, followed by a brief pass through a planting of gum trees. The jogging trail was a well-worn rut that paralleled the park’s southern border. Where the body lay, the trail veered especially close, maybe three feet away.

Intending for her to be found? A methodical killer eager to show off?

Milo kept looking at the woman. I forced myself to do the same. Her mouth was agape, eyes half open, filmed like those of a hooked fish left too long on deck. Crusts of dried blood leaked from her ears, nose, and mouth. That and the size of the bullet hole said a small-caliber slug had bounced around her brain like a pinball.

No purse, no jewelry, no I.D. Whatever bare skin was visible was free of tattoos, scars, distinguishing marks.

I spotted additional blood speckling dirt, leaves, a rock. No need to point it out; Milo crouched like a silverback gorilla, examining one of the larger splotches.

He moved to a spot just north of the woman’s legs and pointed. A broken chain of footprints appeared to lead up to the body. A second series pointed in the opposite direction.

Large, deep impressions for both. The same person, a heavyweight. The tracks revealed none of the corrugations you’d see with an athletic shoe or a hiking boot, just your smooth heel-sole imprint lacking trademark or label or idiosyncrasy.

Both sets of prints vanished as soil gave way to grass. Tough park turf had sprung back hours ago, concealing the killer’s entrance and exit.

Milo circled a couple more times, wrote something down in his pad, showed me a pair of depressions in the grass, slightly to the left of the corpse.

Shallow indentations, as if two weighted bowls had been placed there. Easy to miss but hard to ignore once you saw them. The resilient lawn had tried but failed to mask them completely.

I said, “On her knees.”

“Has to be,” he said. “Then he shot her and she fell over.”

“Or was pushed.”

“No bruising or dirt on her face.”

“He could’ve cleaned her off before he arranged her.”

“You think she looks posed? He didn’t put that other shoe on.”

“It was dark, maybe he didn’t notice.”

He crouched, took out his flashlight despite ample sun, aimed the beam between her teeth.

Victim on her knees, check for oral rape.

I said, “Anything?”

“No obvious fluid but I am seeing little white specks on her gums.”

He showed me.

I said, “Looks like fabric. Bound and gagged.”