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Both Hester and I took several photos from the area of the pit, and of the pit itself. We called for a couple of members of the lab team, who were finishing up the original site, to come up to where we were, to process the area around the pit.

‘‘Know what, Carl?’’ asked Hester.

‘‘What?’’

‘‘This is kind of the same general area where the media people from yesterday were coming from.’’

‘‘Shit, that’s right.’’

‘‘I wonder if they saw anybody.’’

‘‘Or anything.’’

Our first try was for Lamar, but he was out of his car at the county attorney’s office, and we didn’t want to bother him. We tried for Hester’s boss, Al, who had also talked to the media, but he was testifying at a murder trial in Linn County and wasn’t available. We finally tracked down one of the two junior state troopers who had confronted the media people. He wanted to drive right out to where we were, but we finally convinced him to go to a telephone somewhere, and we called him. Save a lot of time that way.

He had the names of both media people and their organization. ‘‘The Des Moines Register.’’ Nancy Mitchell. Of the Cedar Rapids bureau. Good. Philip Rumsford, freelance photojournalist. Worked for an agency out of Minneapolis–St. Paul, but lived in Dubuque, IA.

As it happened, both Mitchell and Rumsford were on their way to the park, for follow-up information. At least that’s what the answering machine at their office said. Hester and I waited, this time in her car. The air conditioning felt wonderful, but I made it perfectly clear to the people at the scene that we really had to use the car for communication purposes. We let Eddie go home, with a promise to let him know if anything useful came of his discovery. He was very pleased with having found something. We waited, trying to stay awake in the comfort of the car.

Hester moved her rearview mirror so she could see herself.

‘‘God, I look like shit.’’

I didn’t say anything for a second, thinking back over what we’d found.

‘‘I said,’’ said Hester, ‘‘ ‘God, I Look Like Shit.’ ’’

‘‘Oh, yeah,’’ I said. ‘‘Well, so do I.’’

‘‘Jesus, Houseman, you’re supposed to say that I don’t look like shit.’’

‘‘Oh. Okay. Sorry.’’ I grinned. ‘‘You don’t look like shit.’’

She sighed. ‘‘Sue has a hard life ahead of her.’’

Nancy Mitchell turned out to be the senior partner of the two. Between thirty-five and forty, she was fit, attractive, and although looking very harried, she did not look like shit. Philip Rumsford, who was about twenty-two, wasn’t nearly as fit, and was both photographer and second-string reporter. Harried didn’t seem to be in his repertoire, but sweat sure did. They had come in a small gray car, dusty, rusty, and with nonfunctional air-conditioning. That had been the first thing Philip mentioned, even before we had identified ourselves. ‘‘Damned air-conditioning’s out.’’ He looked a little peeved. Since Nancy was driving, I assumed it was her car.

Nancy, on the other hand, just seemed a bit surprised that we actually were seeking her out. I was becoming truly jealous over cell phones. Anyway, Lamar’s reputation for hating the press was really well known, and our request to talk with her had come as quite a surprise.

‘‘I’m Nancy Mitchell,’’ she said, extending her hand. We shook.

‘‘Carl Houseman,’’ I said, ‘‘and this is Agent Hester Gorse . . .’’

‘‘I’m Phil Rumsford . . .’’

That out of the way, we got toward business.

‘‘So, you wanted to see us?’’

‘‘Right.’’

‘‘This is unusual,’’ said Mitchell. ‘‘It’s supposed to be the other way around.’’

I grinned. ‘‘Not in this county.’’

She grinned right back. ‘‘So I’ve heard.’’

‘‘Look,’’ I said, ‘‘let’s get right down to it. You are the two who were up on the hill, aren’t you?’’

‘‘Oh,’’ said Mitchell, disgusted. ‘‘This isn’t about some sort of trespassing . . .’’

‘‘No, no. Not a bit. Not at all.’’ I glanced at Hester, who seemed quite prepared to let me blunder about on my own. ‘‘Since your air conditioning is out, why don’t we get