Mother Nature had provided Marcus Brodor a body capable of resisting easily the cold temperatures this winter was bringing. He was large in every direction and was used to look at people from above or walk sideways in narrow places. According to a person who must spend most of his energy to set into motion his own weight, Marcus was a peaceful and placatory man. However, he kept a backup of sheer determination that he knew how to exploit on his own advantage, and he didn't hesitate to do so if necessary.

In his early years as a police officer in uniform, he kept the resemblance of an American football player and moved with a speed that disproved his size. He took advantage of his imposing presence to avoid using physical restrain, as he had learned at an early age that even though he could feel the same pain, people didn't understand the self defense assertion when the opponent was one-third of the other's size. Some years behind a desk and a bit of letting himself wasted had succeeded in reversing his earlier shape and, when his shoulders had been the broadest part of his anatomy in the past, now the bulk had gravitated to his stomach, where a wide fat roll had taken its permanent residence and was the topic of most of the fights with his wife.

The idea that Marcus had coveted in the beginning was to become Police Chief, maybe even Deputy Commissioner. At least that was what he had told his wife at that time, but deep down he knew that the roof of his career wouldn't be far away from a patrol car. When he got his last and final accreditation as a Lieutenant, he had seen with painful clarity that he was not meant to be perpetually chained to a table, driving agents around the city of Baltimore. Maybe it was because he didn't want to be disconnected from the streets or maybe it was for the creepy feeling he got with anything related to politics. He wasn't sure of the reason, but didn't regret the 26 years he had been covering the streets, 12 of them as a homicide detective and 9 as a lieutenant.

The night of the events, he was up when the phone had rang, had given a farewell kiss to his wife - who had muttered something about a coat for the cold - and had left to Union Park where another victim was waiting.

The coffee he held in his hands was unable to warm even his fingertips and he wished for the murderer to have done his work indoors, but... What could you expect from someone who had devoted his/her time to end the life of a young man, and therefore was no more conscious than an impulsive dictator could be? He took a sip from the paper cup, frowning when the - now - cold liquid brushed his lips. He was convinced that if he left the cup in the sidewalk, he would return to find an iced-coffee. The city had turned into a damn freezer! It was one of the coldest winters he could recall and, given his age, he remembered a great deal of them. The only good thing about it was that most people chose to stay at their homes, shacks or slums and, therefore, they didn't have much activity ongoing on the streets, especially at night.

He kicked vigorously the ground, doubting if his feet were still at the end of his legs, or had already migrated to warmer places, and then looked toward the still form that lay on the tidy square of grass. Maybe it was for the blood loss or the cold, but the body had a bluish tinge that he couldn't help but compare with an ice statue. His eyes were partially open and had a white film covering them, making hard to tell what color they were when life had flowed them. Marcus felt tempted to close the boy's eyelids to let him rest at last, but it was against protocol, so he remained in the same spot looking down to a face that had no longer the features of a boy but wasn't an adult either. He doubted that the kid had begun to shave too long ago.

Scientists were still collecting samples and proofs, working like bees and emitting a buzzing sound that Marcus couldn't comprehend quite well. He sighed with relief when the small shape of his partner got out of one of the cars parked at the other side of the yellow tape. Not being a person he usually would want to have around, at least he could understand her.

Sheila Jamet was the antithesis of Marcus. She was petite and thin, and sort of electric shocks seemed to be running through her body at all times. She couldn't stay put more than two minutes and, even in that short period of time, she used to play with her rings or necklace, twisting her fingers and swinging on her feet. With what Marcus described as a vibrant personality, Sheila didn't seem to discourage from anything or anybody. That, combined with the twisting habit, had the ability to get on the nerves of a lot of people, sometimes his own. She had been transferred a year ago form the eastern district and had been partnered with Marcus for the last six months. They didn't hang out together after work, but had reached a sort of balance that allowed them to work just fine.

Sheila raised a hand, shook it with energy and briskly walked down the hill. Marcus wondered how she was capable of staying up right on those heels, more like platforms than styluses; but he had seen her running with them and intercepted more than one suspect with a tackle that would have embarrassed some rugby players. He also had to admit that she knew how to profit from them, especially when using the square base to dig in feet belonging to people reluctant to speak. Maybe his wife was right and it was a matter of getting used to them. Unconsciously, he shrugged his shoulders: as long as she got the work done, he wouldn't complain. Not even about his clothing. Regardless of the short sheepskin leather jacket she was wearing on top of black tight jeans, that seemed helpless against the low temperatures, she hadn't taken one day on sick leave yet. Marcus thought it was due to all that energy she kept bottled inside; it ought to work like a heater. She even might be one of those who release heat at night. Shaking his head to get rid from the images that had assaulted his mind uninvited, he tried to focus on the body sprawled a few feet away.

The gravel crunched under her soles when she stopped at his side. He saw her tossing the curly black hair and then putting it back again covering her ears, while she made a pout with his lips. Marcus knew that at the end of the night it would end up in a ponytail or a bun made with a pencil if there wasn't any hair band at hand. She gave him a friendly nudge in the side and then rubbed her hands together vigorously, to grant some of the heat the night kept stealing from her.

"Man, isn't it freezing here? Look, I think the tip of my nose has frozen. And my ears? They'll fall apart if I dare to touch them. That's the body? It's just a kid. How old? 18 years? Not likely. Is it really two o'clock in the morning? I'm beaten. Is that coffee? Can I have some?"

Marcus was used to Sheila's verbosity, so he just nodded or shook his head at the right times. When his partner was present, the amount of words Marcus said tended to decrease to an alarming level, but Sheila quickly adjusted herself and the questions began to fade away, allowing the answers to be inserted adequately.

"Do we have a name?"

"Brian Adler, 19. Stab wound, he bled right there."

Sheila grimaced and approached the body, thrusting her hands into her pockets.

"Have the scientists guys already done their thing? Is there any suspects? Anyone has been arrested?"

"Almost, no and no" Marcus answered, giving up about the coffee and searching for a bin trash. "We didn't even know who found it".

"An anonymous call?"

Marcus nodded and was about to say something else, when an 'uni' (police officer) came running, slipped slightly on the icy pavement and stood, on wobbling legs, in front of the two detectives.

"Sir, we have another body".

Marcus wasn't an imaginative man and he was often grateful of this inability to see more than his eye did. However, that crime scene showed him more than a girl wrapped in thick black plastic. The eyes wide open spoke of a deep rooted fear, the fingers were clenched, giving proof of an unfair fight, and the mouth O-shaped as if she was still releasing her last breath. The veteran detective recognized all these. He had seen them in photos and feared the implications this discovery was going to bring. He looked over his shoulder, wishing he could bury the corpse and pretend they had never found it. But there was no such possibility, and the conversion from a wild speculation into an undeniable reality did nothing but to put a heavy burden on his weary soul. One hand rubbed eyes that had seen too much in too little time, but the gesture didn't bring any comfort or wipe out the scene that lay at his feet.

"Call the science guys" Marcus said without worrying about who filled the emissary role.

He felt a hand grabbing his arm and he used the physical contact as an Ariadne's thread to remember the way back to reality. He turned his gaze to the slightly concerned brown eyes, for what or whom he wasn't sure, and didn't want to know.

"She's one of them, right? One of those girls DiNozzo talks about".

Marcus sighed heavily and nodded.

"Oh, man" she murmured fixing again her attention on the body. "What a mess".