Last night, beneath the dull glow of a sodium arc lamp, Detective Bobbi Marris watched white wisps of her breath curl in the chill evening. Fog pooled in the schoolyard, damp leaves swirling over the X marked in police tape and chalk on the black asphalt. Al Green from forensics greeted her with a curt nod and a gloved hand, holding up a sealed plastic bag. The moon, a bad quarter, shone down on the firs and Ponderosas, frost-rimed branches silhouetted sharp and linear. Sergeant Detective Marris zipped her coat, tugging the cuffs, steeling herself to reappraise the scene at dawn's first light.