Tyndale looked at his hands. “The thing is, the best time for sightings is just at dawn. If I wait until the park opening, I can miss the shy ones, the ones that hide in the reeds and bushes. By setting up my camera in the dark, I can shoot at first light.”

“Mr. Tyndale,” Coyle said, “is your disclosure that you’ve been entering the park before the gates open?”

“That is the bare fact, yes.”

Coyle sat back in his seat. “All right. As much as that’s a violation of the park regulations, it’s not a matter for city law enforcement. You can speak to the Sonoma County Parks Department. I believe you pay a fine.”

“Really?” Tyndale blinked. “The posted warnings are worded quite sternly and would lead one to believe—”

“But what exactly does this have to do with the murder of Elise Durand?”

“Quite right, Inspector. To the point. Tuesday last, I was in the park before dawn. Over the fence on Channel Drive as usual and found a spot near the Discovery Center to set up my cameras. I was after a pine siskin. Do you know it? Small bird, streaky brown body, bright yellow markings on the wings. Winter bird, not common here. Often mistaken for a house finch, but as I’m sure you’re aware, the adult siskin has a slenderer bill and—”

“Mr. Tyndale.” Coyle raised his arms in frustration.

“Yes, yes, of course. Important to stay on track. The thing is, I took some photos you fellows might be interested in.” He opened the envelope, removed a dozen eight-by-ten prints, and slid them across the table to Coyle. “I shoot an appalling number of pictures, no matter how hard I try not to. These digitals seem to encourage excess. Half the time, I don’t even bother reviewing them until I’m back home. I took this series before it was light. Just setting up the camera, not even looking in the viewfinder.”

Tyndale pointed to the left edge of the top photograph. “I intended to shoot the northern side of the hill just there. I’d seen a siskin in the manzanita the night before, and I was hoping to be ready for it at daybreak. But when I set the camera on its stand, it must have been pointing at the bench where you found that poor woman. This morning, when poking around the early frames, I saw these chaps off in the background, and I thought they might jolly well be something the authorities would want to see.”

Coyle stared at the prints. The pictures were dim and grainy but showed three individuals carrying a large object. In successive photos, the figures climbed down the hill to the bench, where they placed the object, visible in the final photo as a body wrapped in a blanket.

Coyle realized he had stopped breathing. He looked up to Tyndale.