Detective Miller and I stand shoulder to shoulder and stare at the empty bench.
“Wedding cakes,” he says after a time.
I look at him over my shoulder. “I’m sorry, Miller. Must be my tricky ear, but I thought you just said wedding cakes.”
“Yup, I did. I did indeed say wedding cakes.”
We both refocus on the bench. The yellow tape looks ridiculously out of place. Like a painter ran out of “Wet Paint” tape and had no choice but to borrow some of this yellow stuff from a cop walking his beat. Pardon me . . . his or her beat.
or He goes to the bench, stands directly beside it, makes an about-face on his heels. He then takes an exaggerated step forward, and another, and another, until he is all the way back down to the road.
Turning back around, he says, “Thirty feet.”
“The distance?”
