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angelically, lightly touching the shoulders of a few witnesses, as if she were looking for someone. But as I climbed the hill higher towards my car, her demeanor changed.
    There were no details when there was uncertainty, and that had to be a comfort in some abstract way. It depended on what way you looked at it I supposed. I wasn’t sure if she was a possible relation or just a concerned neighbor whose daughter might have dated him someday, who would have taken him to pick out his tuxedo for the prom, and slipped him a kiss on his way out of the back seat of the limousine. There was always someone relieved when they realized that it wasn’t their son or daughter. I could just tell. That had to be a hard thing to live with, being glad that a child other than your own was dead. No one really understood how powerful and destructive the truth could be.
    No one stopped the woman as she stood at the edge of the pond. She then removed her shoes and stepped purposely out onto the ice. Despite people cupping their mouths and shouting, the woman remained determined and moved further out. Another woman went out to help her and coaxed her back. Wrapping her arms around the shoulders of the distraught woman, they both sat down at the edge of the pond while a paramedic wrapped a wool blanket around their bodies. I slammed the door on the trunk of my car and tossed the mask into the back seat.
    Body Number Three (March): Penelope Marcipio, 15 years old. Was discovered in a partially collapsed silo filled with water, waste products, and other residual debris, on an abandoned farm. A real estate agent, who recently assumed responsibility for the sale of the property, alerted police when he discovered the body while surveying the acreage. She was the first child that wasn’t from the area. Penelope was reported missing over four months ago from a small town about 60 miles to the west. No one at the time the body was discovered had claimed legal ownership of the property. It was determined later that she was most likely the second victim, but was the third corpse found. The foreclosed farm where her body was retrieved was a modest property at the northern edge of town, covering about eighteen acres. Forensics teams continued desperately to relate each of the murder victims, through proximity, relationships, shopping habits, physicality, schooling, any kind of similarities at all. It was getting harder.
    Boxes of tagged evidence were shipped to a specialized crime unit within the Federal Bureau of Investigation. The pressure for federal agencies to provide support had been mounting for weeks. The entire collapse and possible rebuilding of the case from the very first victim created budgetary limitations as well. Taxpayers were increasingly stretched to their limit. Officials within the remaining hierarchy of the local police department spoke quietly of reassigning Detective Mull to another case if the lack of progress continued, in order to provide a different perspective on the crimes, and establish what the newspapers termed “a sense of hope.” This would end up being the worst of the crime scenes and would have a lasting effect on everyone.
    Something Mull had said about water caught my attention as I tapped lightly against the window with the back of my hand, waiting. The outside of my knuckles turned rose, the color of a frightened raspberry.
    â€œWhat did you say?” I asked.
    â€œI said it’s extremely remote; more than seventeen or eighteen miles away from any interchange entrance or exit, making it an extremely isolated place to dump a body. We checked with the county records department. No one has attempted to purchase the land since the original holders were forced into foreclosure. By all accounts it’s considered abandoned, but there’s still a lot of belongings, records and broken furniture and personal effects still inside,” he said. “Whoever once lived here must have left almost