Free Body Count by P.D. Martin

white Buick. Off to the corner I see Sam’s Bureau-issue, and Marty’s car is parked behind Sam’s. Marco pulls up to the curb, behind the coroner. Except for the flashing lights the area is quiet.
    â€œThanks, Marco.”
    â€œAnytime.”
    I glance in the side mirror. Two TV vans pull up behind us…the peace will be short-lived.
    â€œTV’s here.” I open my door.
    â€œBe careful, Soph.”
    I get out of the car quickly and race the press, eager to get out of their view before they set up. I follow the meandering pathway near the cars. The route is lined with skeletal cherry blossom trees and I imagine what they’d look like in bloom. I keep walking. From this viewpoint the park looks peaceful. But over that ridge there’s a dead body, with all the trimmings—police, forensics, morbid onlookers and, soon, the press. I come to the second park bench and take a right, up the hill, following Sam’s instructions. My first step off the path is accompanied by the crisp sound of fall leaves crackling under my shoes. For a moment I let myself enjoy the sensation, knowing that soon my senses will be assaulted with very different sights, sounds and smells.
    It’s a steep walk, and as soon as I reach the crest I can see down into the crime scene. The police have cordoned off a large area, and around the tape a few curious onlookers gather. The main activity is off to the left slightly, in a scrublike area with dense foliage and bright flowers. The foliage hampers my view, but I can see movement and camera bulbs flashing. For the moment it’s just the crime-scene photographers, but soon it will be the media, trying to get a glimpse of a body.
    I make my way toward the cop who’s obviously the point guy. He’s young, fresh out of the Academy by the looks of him.
    â€œI’m sorry, ma’am,” he says, holding out his hand, “this is official police business.” The words have a practiced ring.
    I smile. I was that green once. I grab my ID from my handbag and hold it up. “I’m with the FBI. I’ve been called in to look at the crime scene.”
    He blushes slightly but looks closely at my ID—perhaps a little thrown by my accent.
    â€œSorry, ma’am.”
    â€œNo need to apologize, you’re just doing your job.” The poor kid’s probably already had some egomaniac detective chew him out this morning.
    He points to the activity. “She’s just in there.”
    The protective tone in his voice makes me wonder if it’s his first dead body. He said “she” and not “the victim.” He is green, but I like it.
    â€œThanks, Officer.” I make my way toward the activity.Again I flash my ID as I get closer, and then I spot Detective Flynn from homicide standing with Sam and the coroner. Flynn is in his late thirties and has a full head of black, slightly wavy hair. He’s about the same height as Marco, but he hasn’t got Marco’s six-pack. He’s tall with a sizable potbelly that is further accentuated by his otherwise thin frame. He usually sports a five o’clock shadow, no matter what time of day, and I’m sure today will be no exception.
    The coroner and Flynn are engaged in intense discussion. From here I can see that they are hovering next to the body, which is resting in a flower bed in the middle of the foliage. The rest of the crime-scene area is taken up by forensics, including some FBI employees. Marty is working the scene, probably coordinating the forensics effort. At the moment he’s crouching down on his knees about five feet away from the body. Maybe this time the perp’s left us a shoe print. God knows we need something.
    I hunch over and clamber into the undergrowth.
    Flynn turns. “Agent Anderson. It doesn’t let up, does it?”
    â€œIt’s certainly been a busy six months. What have we got?”
    I peer through a gap between Sam and