Cheney finally showed up. The K-9 handler and cadaver dog were in a separate black-and-white that pulled in beside his car. Two minutes later one of the two evidence techs arrived, followed by the mobile crime lab with the second tech riding in the back. It looked like a circus arriving in town, men and equipment being set up for all the folderol to come. We had to wait for the photographer, but that gave Cheney the opportunity to approach the house on the property where they intended to dig. He was gone for ten minutes, talking to the couple whose hillside they wanted to invade.

The rest of us had emerged from our respective vehicles and we stood on the parking strip like extras on a movie set. We had nothing to do, but most people there were being paid for doing it. Sutton walked Cheney and the techs out to the burial site. Madaline and I were relegated to the sidelines while the professionals went to work. Two officers returned to the car to pick up traffic cones and the yellow plastic tape that would define the area. I wouldn’t be allowed within a fifty-yard radius, so I occupied my time chatting with the canine officer I knew from times past. Gerald Pettigrew had been a beat cop in my neighborhood some six years before. In those days, he’d been hefty, a black guy in his thirties with beefy shoulders and a gut on him that would be a liability in a foot chase. By the same token, if he managed to overtake you, you’d wish you’d run a lot faster because the guy could hand out punishment. He’d lost weight since I’d seen him last, a side effect of his working with the golden Lab he introduced as Belle.

Madaline took the occasion to let Goldie Hawn hop out of the car. The two dogs went through the usual heinie-smelling nice-meeting-you routine. Anyone who knows me will testify I’m not a fan of dogs, but I hadn’t felt at all hostile to these two. I took this as a sure sign I was getting old. Far from becoming set in my ways, my defenses were breaking down. At this rate, in another few years, the whole world would come rushing in and smother me with kindness.

I let Belle sniff my hand, which is something I’d seen other people do in the company of cats and dogs. I hoped the gesture would stave off a sudden snarling attack that would remove half my arm. I looked up at Gerald. “I pictured a bloodhound or a German shepherd.”