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One of the squads had moved forward, to
allow passage of a black van with the telltale FH on its license
plates. Funeral Home. A suited man threw open the van’s back doors,
and pulled out a wheeled silver cart that expanded to
body-transporting-size in seconds. “Oh my God,” my aunt said, her
voice cracking. “Oh my God.”
    “ I’ll be right back,” I
said, starting toward the police perimeter.
    “ Where are you going?” she
asked reaching her hand out as if to hold me back.
    I turned, shrugged. “I might have been the
last person to see her alive,” I said, thinking: except for the
murderer, that is. “I think I ought to let somebody know that.”
    Another young officer, this one male,
stopped me as I scooted between the bumpers of two squads. His
nametag read: Randall.
    “ Hey, there,” he said.
“Hold on a minute.”
    “ Who’s running this
investigation?” I asked.
    His dark eyes took in my formal dress,
spiked shoes and far-too flimsy shawl. “And you are. . . ?”
    Switching into
professional mode gave me more comfort than I had any right to
expect. “Alex St. James,” I said, leaving off the added information
that I worked for Midwest Focus
Newsmagazine . That’d get me bounced in a
hurry. “I was here . . . with Mrs. Vicks earlier this evening. I
thought I could be of some help?”
    I ended the statement with a question.
Officer Randall nodded once, told me to wait there, and disappeared
into a crowd of uniformed officers standing near the funeral home’s
van. Neighbors I’d known since I was a kid all stared at me with
what seemed a combination of respect for approaching the
authorities, and confusion as to why. I offered them a somber smile
and turned to wait for Officer Randall’s return.
    A moment later, he did, stopping at Mrs.
Vicks’ tiny front yard and gesturing me closer. Her home had been
roped off with bright yellow crime scene tape that caught the light
in snatches as the wind tilted it back and forth. As I walked past
her house, I looked down at the foot-high white plastic chain she
always kept strung around her lawn to prevent kids from trampling,
I felt yet another pang. Mrs. Vicks was part of my life, and I’d
blown her off this evening when she needed to talk to me.
    “ This way,” he said,
leading me toward a squad. “Detective Lulinski wants to see
you.”
    * * * * *
    I’d never been in the back seat of a police
car before, and while the warmth from its idling engine was a
welcome change from the wet chill of the night, I couldn’t help but
feel uncomfortable. I’d landed in a cloud of aroma, not at all
good. It was such a combination of odors, ones I could imagine and
others I’d prefer not to, that I blinked, hoping I could get used
to it fast.
    The entire seat was one piece of gray molded
plastic. My backside slid as I got in, and I wound up accidentally
pinning the long edge of my shawl under my butt. Officer Randall
waited patiently for me to get myself settled, but I must have
looked like the most uncoordinated passenger he’d ever had. Digging
my heels into the floor, I lifted myself enough to loosen the
shawl.
    “ You okay?”
    “ Yeah,” I answered,
realizing I would have been happier waiting for the detective in
the drizzle.
    Randall looked as though about to close the
door, but my left foot still hadn’t cleared. All this took mere
seconds, but in that time, I watched Mrs. Vicks’s roommate, Diana,
being helped from the back seat of the squad across from us.
    Both her hands gripped the car’s doorframe
in an effort to pull herself out. A man I assumed was Detective
Lulinski alighted moments before. He held out his hand, offering
assistance, but with her face positioned downward, Diana didn’t see
it. Her stringy dark hair fell forward, and I could imagine the
look of concentration she wore as she struggled to make her way
outside. I couldn’t see her face, but her large build and lumbering
manner made her identity clear.
    I put Detective