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supervisor said she wanted to bring San Francisco in. Marin was here, too, of course. I think they were a little pissed. But Sandstrom got out a map and said the body was within five hundred feet of the county line or something, so it could as easily be yours as theirs.”
    “How on earth does she figure that measurement?” Kate asked in amazement. They were a couple of miles from the shoreline of San Francisco.
    “Seems the San Francisco limits run up to the Marin shore, not halfway across the Gate. Personally, I think we’re more than five hundred feet from the water here, but I’m not about to argue with my boss.”
    “So why is Marin’s coroner here instead of our ME?”
    “The coroner got here before they’d called you in, didn’t seem necessary to have two officials dragged out on a Saturday to pronounce death. And these guys agreed to transport the body over to you rather than dragging your guys over. Overtime, you know? So how’s it been?”
    Williams and Hawkin spent a minute in small talk, which Kate listened to with half an ear—Williams was apparently married, his wife expecting their second in the summer, and there was a mutual friend named Pat they needed to catch up on—while she watched Crime Scene go about their business.
    The man, who was indeed Lo-Tec Freeman, glanced up at Kate and nodded his recognition, but did not interrupt his work. He wasn’t singing today, not even humming, and Kate wondered if his companion acted as a damper. The woman was new, to Kate anyway, a Hispanic woman in her thirties.
    They were both dressed in white jumpsuits, working over a pair of bare feet. It looked as if they had finished the initial photographs and sketching, and were looking for any evidence on the body itself before it was moved. Their equipment was stacked along the wall in two neat piles, one for tools and supplies they might need but had not yet used, the other made up of tools they had finished with and the packaged evidence they had gathered. From the distribution of tools, they had all but finished with the room for a while, and were focused in on the body.
    The room was a windowless cement box that had once been whitewashed, although time and damp had peeled off most of the finish; stalactites were beginning to form in one corner. The graffiti on the walls was all old, several messages dated before Kate was born; in the wall opposite the entrance was an opening to a small room or corridor. The air smelled of damp concrete, mildew, gasoline exhaust, and spoiling meat. Kate could only hope Crime Scene didn’t keep them standing around for too long.
    Williams and Al had come to a pause in their conversation, so Kate asked, “What’s through there?”
    In answer, Williams called to the two Crime Scenes, “You mind if we go take a look?”
    “We’re finished in there,” Lo-Tec said.
    Williams pulled his four-cell Maglight from his deep jacket pocket and led them around the perimeter of the room, keeping near the walls. He switched on his light as they came to the opening, and led them into the darkness.
    He stopped when they were free of the glow from the room, and played his flashlight beam down what proved to be a corridor with openings on either side. “I love this place, the headlands. I’ve talked my way into every one of the batteries, volunteered some time with the cataloguing and repairs, so even though I’m not one of the interpreters, I can give you a decent tour.
    “Even a single gun like DuMaurier requires a fair amount of support space,” the amateur guide began. “For the personnel you need latrines, a mess, even bunks for when the men and officers are here for an extended period. You need a dry magazine for the powder—that’s always well covered with reinforced concrete and earth, in case the enemy shoots back—and rooms for storing the shells. You need a plotting room, a tool room, a guard room, a connection to the roads for deliveries. The two small rooms directly