fast as I could. It was a challenge. Although I haven’t told Patel, I did look up the videos on YouTube. I solved it, but only by learning an existing solution. I didn’t find an answer to the problem myself.
I’d stared at that damn cube for hours. Its sides matched up perfectly. Blue with blue. Red with red. But I couldn’t shake the feeling that it’d gotten the better of me. I hadn’t conquered it, hadn’t figured out how it worked. Not really.
So I’d gotten up in the middle of the night, scrambled the sucker up, and gone for it again.
“Guess I’m a glutton for punishment,” I say, giving Patel an answer he’ll accept.
But I know the truth, deep down in my gut: I won’t let it beat me, and I won’t stop until I figure it out for myself. Some questions in this world can’t be answered. Problems won’t be solved. Cures won’t be found. I’ve learned that lesson the hard way. But this six-sided puzzle has a solution, and I’ll find it.
As we approach the scene, the uniformed deputy calls everyone over, away from the body. He’s just completed an initial full-body examination and is prepared to give us the rundown. Patel is on the bubble, which means he’s the lead detective on this one. I mentally log the details as the deputy talks fast. Female body found at approximately seven this morning by Sarah Rhys, a local dog walker. Four feet deep. Back of her skull bashed in. No weapon found yet. No wallet or keys. No cellphone. Time of death is estimated to be six months ago, judging by an early assessment of the tissues, but the coroner will nail it down. The moistness of the soil in the grove will affect the rate of decomposition, so he’ll take that into account.
Another deputy approaches holding an evidence bag. There’s a dirty gold medallion inside. “This was found on her chest,” he says, handing it over. Rolling the grains of dirt around, the deputy eyes the gold necklace. “Looks like the Virgin Mary. No other jewelry found on her.”
I nod. “There’s some kind of stone on it. It’s a start for ID.”
When he’s finished giving the briefing, Patel goes to work assigning tasks to the officers on scene. Within two hours, a pop-up tent is erected over the grave to protect it from rain. And then, for most of the day, soil is shoveled and sifted to ensure not a single thing is missed. Everyone who has tramped through the scene has the bottom of their shoes photographed.
Hands on his hips, Patel circles the shallow grave, shouting orders to the deputies on scene.
“I want every license plate on that street photographed.”
“Everyone who comes in and out of this grove uses this path right here, the one we just trampled on.”
“I want identification and I want it fast.”
As he goes on, barking orders and processing the scene, I move toward the edge of the cliff, to where the dog walker stands talking with a young deputy. She’s clutching a shawl around her shoulders, staring at the ground over the rim of her glasses. She can’t be more than forty, though her hair is so gray it’s almost silver.
“Good morning,” I say when I reach them. “I’m Detective Shaw. Were you the one who discovered the body?” Though I already know the truth.
She looks up at me, worry plaguing her eyes. “Yes, that’s me. Sarah Rhys.”
“Can I talk to you for a minute?”
“He said I’d be taken to the station to give my formal statement.” She gestures to the deputy at her side.
“Right,” I say, moving beside her so I can face the scene. “But I’d like to talk to you informally, if you wouldn’t mind.”
“All right.”
The deputy nods in my direction, as if to tell me to keep my eye on the witness, before he heads back to the scene.