It was a hot summer day in South Reves, New Jersey. The town sort of sprang up on the traveler after the southern end of the Borough of Sayreville, at the crossing of the bridge that connected the towns. The area was known as a speed trap to locals who by now knew about the police hiding spots at the beginning and end of the bridge. Most new travelers would have no idea and they would fall into the hands of a rested patrolman, aiming his calibrated radar gun at the oncoming vehicles. The patrolman would activate his overhead lights and cut the path of the unsuspecting driver well before he had a chance to pass through town.

Detective Dean Summers despised traffic work. He had had his fill of it in his years as a patrolman and since becoming a detective some years back, he had rarely issued any traffic summons. Today he was not working on anything in particular. At times like these he liked to park his long black Ford in the parking lot of the WAWA store, at the bottom of the bridge, on the Sayreville side. His boss had warned him several times already that this could be a problem with jurisdiction. If he happened to pick up on any criminal activity, it technically would belong to the Sayreville Police. Dean brushed him off with a shrug of his shoulders or an off target remark like "I'll report it to Sayreville then." "So, you're making work for another department? Get over on our side, will you?" his boss would say. Dean paid him no mind. The truth was that he liked to sit idle in the parking lot and chill with a cold plastic bottle of orange juice or just plain water and watch the cars stop at the light as they began the steep climb over the bridge. A working man deserved a break. For a small town like South Reves, he kept busy enough, answering his phone almost 24/7 and not being paid for it. He had 20 years in the force. What the heck? He'd be dammed if he could not take ten or fifteen minutes for himself.

He slid his body down on the driver's seat and gulped his drink down. Last night he had been up until almost 4:00 A.M. and then up at 7:00 again. He was tired. He let his car engine run so he could keep the air going. It felt so cozy inside that he wound down to the point where he was suddenly asleep, drink in hand.

What startled him a few minutes later was the sound of the rattling engine of a small car, driving at racetrack speed. He opened his eyes and saw the red Honda Hatchback, its frame so low that he swore he heard it scrub the ground as it screeched off the light and made for the bridge. It was not so much the speed but that unbearable shrieking sound that it made that actually got Dean upset. He would have preferred to close his eyes and doze off but when the red devilish creep cut off the car starting to go on the left lane and then weaved from side to side in front of him, as if taunting its driver that proved too much for Dean.

"Shit," he said to himself as he straightened himself up. "The little punk had to come in and spoil my nap."

He said it as if he had seen the driver when in fact he did not have the faintest idea of who he was. That's how Dean Summers's brain worked. In his opinion, fast moving small cars with shrieking mufflers were driven by little punks, blacks and Hispanics who were all criminals or women who should be at home. He did not hide his bigotry either, yet, his seniors at the police department let him slide only due to one reason and that was because Dean Summers was a darn good detective, the best one that the Borough of South Reves had ever laid hands on.

He clicked his Ford's engine on and put the car on reverse as he turned his police red lights on and hit the siren. He backed up at brace neck speed then switched the drive to forward. He stepped on the gas pedal literally to the metal causing the rear Good Year aramid overlay tires to sweep off some of the parking lot's gravel back as they slid furiously on the ground. Then he was off like a bullet, bouncing off the driveway's apron and squeezing in front of oncoming traffic as he made the turn at the light. He went up on the bridge and eyed his prey, now way past the crest. He bet he would catch up to him before the light at the end. He was working his engine without mercy, doing well over eighty. There were no cars on his side so he moved to the right lane. Just as he was reaching the light he happened to make one of those subconscious gestures that had come to him throughout his life's work. He jerked his neck sideways and got a peek of the twisting branch of the river that edged the shoreline. He got a fleeting glance of the bulky object floating among a flock of geese. The scene stayed in his mind like the instant photograph of a Polaroid.

The light was red but the red Honda kept going, picking up speed. Dean was now struggling to bring his car down to a manageable speed. The Borough's downtown area sprung up suddenly as one left the bridge and giving chase in the middle of a crowded street was definitely off limits. But there was no need. The local police station was right down the block and they had already picked up on the speeder. Two patrol cars quickly barricaded the road one block away, forcing the Honda's driver to either stop or commit suicide. With Dean right behind his tail, there was no escape. The Honda screeched to a halt and out came the young driver, running into the opposite sidewalk, chased by three officers who ordered him to stop.

"All right Dean, where did you find him, on the Sayreville side?"

He was a lieutenant in the Borough's police department, well aware of Dean's reputation. He chuckled as he spoke to him.

"Hey," Dean said, ignoring his comment, "can your men watch my car here for a few minutes? I've gotta check something out in the river."

"In the river? No way, you're blocking traffic. Who knows how long you're gonna be."

Dean turned his back and walked away towards the bridge. He stopped by his Ford on the way and stuck his hand through the open passenger window to grab his radio speaker and clicked it on.

"I'm off to the river for a look, Captain. I've got my cell on me. Can I call you?"

"Go ahead," said the voice on the other end. "What can you possibly be looking for in the river, some dead duck?"

"I'll tell you in a minute, Captain."

Dean put the mike back into the radio box and walked over the bridge. He could have gone off into the swampy area off the shoreline and reach the water that way but it would have been too messy and besides, the object of his curiosity was further up. He would have to plunge into the water.

He walked up no more than fifty yards, past the swampy area, where two arms of water branched off the river. He saw the brown bulge that had caught his attention near the shoreline of the larger of the two water sections and swung his leg over the guardrail. He went down the embankment, getting his shoes soaked in mud almost immediately. The area around the water shore was marshy and it was impossible to avoid getting dirty. Dean worked his way laboriously into the water, slowly walking forward towards the bulky object and without taking his eyes off it. A few geese that swam nearby began sliding away as he came near. "Yeah," he said out loud, "that's a human body all right."

He got as close as he thought would be prudent without endangering what could be a crime scene, with the water reaching almost up to his waist. That was always his biggest fear as a detective, spoiling a crime scene. No matter how intense his curiosity, he could not...