Cecilia ducked under the yellow police tape, her stomache in knots, feeling a guilty, voyeuristic flash. When Conrad Ecklie had suggested she accompany him to the crime scene, she had been eager for the opportunity to observe him at work. She had followed him to the Denali in the lot, and listened as he explained some of the steps that were being taken to secure the scene and prepare for the arrival of forensics. He had chattered non-stop during the short drive, and Cecilia had been unable to analyze her feelings about what was occuring.

But now that she was actually on the scene, and the yellow tape had brushed against her skin, now that she was confronted with the grey form of the coroner's van, and was watching the police officers moving about, the reality of the situation began to solidify. A man was dead. Struck by a driver who had left his battered body bleeding in the street. A man who likely had loved and was loved. For whom people were now, or would be soon, mourning. Perhaps a spouse, children, parents or siblings. Co-workers and friends would find a void in their lives too.

This wasn't a page in a book, or the result of clever film editing. This was no make-believe character or a well paid actor. There on the ground, several yards away, was the 'DB' that Ecklie had been referring to. The unfortunate victim was no longer a living, breathing, feeling human being, but a case number. The star in an active investigation in it's initial stages. She knew that the man had been a police officer. A homicide detective. Denny Martens.

Cecilia tightened her fingers into fists, her nails digging into her palms, while her heart raced in her chest. What right did she have to be here? She tried to concentrate on Conrad Ecklie's voice, explaining some of the goings on. He paused near the police cruiser, parked close to the body, and opened his kit. He had taken off the suit jacket and left it on the rear seat of the SUV, and had donned a black vest instead, which indicated his affiliation with the CSI unit. Cecilia watched him as removed his camera, then wriggled his fingers into a pair of latex gloves. She concentrated on his actions, not wanting to look beyond to the deceased man, or the brutal evidence of his demise.

She told herself that she wasn't here as a thrill-seeker. But she couldn't shake the feeling that her being at the scene was an invasion of the dead man's privacy. Cecilia concentrated on taking deep breaths and trying to slow her racing heart.

"Ecklie."

She turned to the sound of the masculine voice. A middle-aged man of average height and build stood with his hands on his hips. Brown eyes regarded both she and the the CSI investigator coolly from beneath bushy brows.

"Morning, Jim," Conrad Ecklie said. He favoured the man with a slick grin then sobered. "Shame about Denny Martens. I didn't know him well, but he was a good man." Ecklie paused then continued. "Sheriff asked me to oversee this one personally. Doesn't want any mistakes, not with one of our own."

The man identified as Jim stared at Ecklie for a moment, and Cecilia thought she saw irritation cross his craggy features. "Yeah, a damn shame," he said finally with a woefulness that touched the writer. He looked questioningly at Cecilia.

"Cecilia Laval, this is Captain Jim Brass. Jim, Cecilia is a writer who'll be spending some time with us for the next little while." Ecklie made the introductions.

A writer? Brass's left eyebrow shot up. He recalled receiving the directive from the sheriff that some friend of a friend of a friend of the Kellerman's, or some such thing, was going to be disrupting the PD and CSI unit as part of some research project. That was all they needed. As if they didn't have enough trouble with those vultures with their media badges, always trying to push their way onto crime scenes, always circling the carrion of death or destruction to see who could get the best soundbite for the six o'clock slot, or who would have the most sensational headline for an above the fold article.

It was difficult enough trying to deal with their clamoring from the sidelines, trying to shake them off like rat terriers, with their tenacious questions and speculations. Precious time wasted while the police tried to do their jobs, and gather their evidence and ensure that the law was enforced. It wasn't enough that reporters were always picking at the edges of crime scenes, interfering, fighting one another for scraps, using whatever tricks they could to get the next scoop or exclusive. Now Kellerman and Mobley had decided that it was a great idea to invite one of the jackals in and lay out a veritable feast.

"Ms. Laval," Brass acknowledged in a flat tone.

Cecilia noticed that the Captain did not offer to shake, but instead kept his hands on his hips. The deepening of the creases in his forehead indicated the depth of his displeasure. "It's good to meet you, Captain Brass," she returned, trying to muster up a non-threatening smile. "I'm sorry that it's under such tragic circumstances."

Brass nodded curtly, and his lips twitched in what Cecilia thought might have been intended as a smile of his own, but which, lacking sincerity, dissipated before it ever had a chance to form. Then he was fixing his dark eyes on Conrad Ecklie. "Before you get started, there's something I wanted to say. Just a hunch I'm working."

Ecklie gazed loftily at the other man. "You can speak freely, Jim."

Cecilia knew that the detective was uncomfortable with her prescence. "Please," she interjected. "I understand, really. I appreciate your trust and willingness to include me, Conrad, but I don't want to get in the way when there is such important work to do." She saw that her response had caught the Captain off guard. "I can wait here so the two of you can discuss whatever you need to." She drew back against the cruiser.

"Thanks," Brass told her grudgingly. For a moment, his gaze softened, then he began to walk away, towards the body, while Conrad Ecklie fell into step beside him.

"What is it?" Ecklie demanded in a voice tight with aggravation.

Brass stifled his own. "I'm working a hunch about this. I'm not convinced this was some random hit and run. Witness says the vehicle actually sped up. I need to confirm what these marks," Brass stopped now, looking down at the black smears against the grey, "indicate. Deceleration? Or acceleration?"

Ecklie glanced at them, before dropping his first numbered marker, and snapping a couple of quick shots. "I can tell you now, Jim, they're acceleration marks."

"Yeah, that's what I thought. But I just need it verified."

"That doesn't mean the hit was deliberate," Ecklie cautioned. "It's easy enough, under stress, to press the wrong pedal. Gas instead of brake." Brass nodded his agreement. "Is there some reason you think someone might have had it in for Martens?"

Brass shrugged his shoulders. "Like I said, just a hunch."

Ecklie persisted. "Retribution? Some perp he put away just get released? Is he working a dangerous case? What?" The CSI supervisor's eyes glinted with interest.

Jim had already considered those possibilities as well. Until he was certain that this had been an accident, there were no theories that he was not going to entertain. "I don't know yet," Brass admitted. There was no way he was going to say anything to Ecklie...to anyone, but especially to Conrad Ecklie...to compromise Denny Marten's reputation.

Brass might have a gut feeling that the coffee shop girl had been more than a casual acquaintance, but he didn't know that. Not yet. And even if it were true, it might not be relevant to the case. "Cop gets killed though, you gotta consider foul play. Either way, I want this one treated as a homicide, til we know more. On the QT."

Conrad Ecklie turned his attention to the body. Before it was transported he would have to search for and remove any minutia that might be connected to the accident, and which could help identify the SUV that had been involved. But it would be the vehicle itself that would clinch any case. "Of course," Ecklie told the other man. "If there's one thing I am, it's discreet."

Brass had to bite his inner cheek to keep from giving a loud guffaw. Yeah, he thought, and I'm Brad Pitt.