A young state patrolman catches my eye and motions in my direction as I climb out of my car. He’s not alone. There are three more cars, two of which belong to Jefferson County Sheriff’s deputies. A third, I can tell, belongs to the young couple who made the call. It’s a ten-year-old Buick Skylark, brick red in color. It must have been a hand-me-down car from a grandparent or something. The couple standing next to it are young.

The female is petite with light brown hair and white skin. The male has black hair and dark skin. She looks toward the ravine. He keeps his eyes on me as I approach.

“I’m Detective Carpenter,” I say. “I know today has been traumatic for both of you,” my eyes take them in, “but I need you both to tell me how you found the victim.”

The two of them tell me their story. It’s a Wimbledon tennis match, with Maddie and Dante taking turns filling me in.

“Sasquatch.”

“Proof.”

“Road sucked.”

“Wanted to go home.”

“Had to pee.”

“He called over to me.”

“Truck.”

“Like it was hidden.”

Maddie stops for a second before starting up again. She looks down at the powdery dirt road. I know she’s remembering. Dante wraps his arm around her shoulder.

“Hand like a claw.”

“Heard scream.”

And that was that.

We’re finishing up as the coroner’s plain white van pulls in, and I take down Maddie and Dante’s contact information and tell them to go home.

“This is a murder case, right?” Dante asks before turning to leave.

“We don’t know that yet,” I say.

Really, I do know. I can’t think of a scenario in which the whole thing was the result of a freak accident. Like maybe someone got caught in a carpet roll at Home Depot and a worker found the body and was fearful they’d be blamed. And maybe fired. That’s stupid. Honestly, why else would anyone wrap up a body in carpet and set the thing on fire, and push it off the road? Murder, most likely.

Jerry Larsen approaches. He’s in his sixties. He’s been our coroner for more than half his life. Since the position is very part time, he and his wife run a drugstore downtown. He makes me think of Santa Claus every time I see him. His hair is white, and he has a silky, six-inch white beard. Jerry’s not the least bit fat, but with his twinkly eyes, white hair and pink cheeks, in my mind, I think of him as Merry Larsen. I never say that aloud.

“Detective,” he says, “what have we got here?”