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“Well, we live close by,” Sampson said.

“We want to see the body in situ,” Winthrop said.

“So do we,” I said.

Sampson and I put on blue booties and gloves and ducked under the tape. Hayes and Winthrop followed us.

The brush was thorny and grabbed at us. We pushed forward until we could see the victim. She was on her knees, turned away from us, pants and panties down around her shins, a roll of toilet paper at her side. Her shoulders and head were stuck in a thick bush growing there. There was a significant dent at the back of her skull. Her hair was soaked with blood.

“Blunt-force trauma as she relieved herself,” Winthrop said. “Heavy pipe, maybe.”

“Could be,” I said, moving brush aside so I could go around in front of her.

I had to duck to look through the bushes she’d fallen into, but I saw enough of her face to recognize her, and my heart sank. “Jesus.”

“What?” Sampson said.

“It’s Anna Bananas.”

76

TOMMY HAYES RADIOED FOR a forensics team while Judy Winthrop and John Sampson searched the area around the body. I went looking for Emma and Luke Stein, Anna’s kids, and Robert Bogner. As I climbed the north embankment toward their squats, several people watched me.

“Are we safe?” one older woman asked.

“No,” I said. “Be on your guard and call the police if you see anything.”

“I don’t have a phone.”

“Borrow one if you see something,” I said and moved upward.

When I reached the lean-to where Anna Stein had lived with her kids, I knocked on a piece of plywood. No answer.

I pulled back a tarp and looked inside. I was surprised to see how clean and well organized the shelter was: Crates were lined up on one wall with folded clothes inside them. Three sleeping bags were laid out on wooden pallets with foam pads. A propane lantern hung above a single-burner camping stove, and schoolbooks were neatly stacked on a makeshift desk.

Thinking of Luke and Emma waiting in line for the meal at St. Anthony’s the other day, I had to close my eyes at the injustice of all they’d endured, and now they had to deal with the murder of their mother. Anna had had serious mental-health issues, but it was obvious she’d loved her kids, and they had adored her.

She sure as hell did not deserve to die like this.

I thought about her body position as I opened my eyes. Anna had been hit viciously, possibly without warning, which could mean either a crime of passion or vengeance of some kind.

The problem was, I could not see her provoking either one. She could seem crazy, I supposed, although some of her observations were weirdly incisive. In any case, she was not mean or cunning. More helpless than anything.

I shut the entrance to Anna’s place, wondering if Emma was behind the neatness of their home, struggling for order in the middle of the chaos.

I went to Boog’s lean-to and knocked on a post holding up one corner of a tarp. To my surprise, the army blanket that served as a door moved, and an attractive woman in her forties with wild, unkempt hair emerged, an unlit cigarette dangling from her lips.

She fixed bloodshot eyes on me, said, “Who you?”

I showed her the badge on my belt.

“Already?” she said, sounding disgusted. “I just got here last night. I ain’t done shit.”

“Are you Robert Bogner’s mother?” I asked.

“Long as I can remember.”

“What’s your name?”