"We found her body south of the river," said the Sheriff. "Dead, again." The Agent from Massachusetts (or Maine) opened her eyes, still recovering from the flight, "It was bound," she remarked somnolently. "To happen, that is." The Sheriff nodded uneasily. "Of course," he conceded. "But you're a doctor... I mean, you were at one time. So you could perform an autopsy, right?" The Agent shook her head, "Not legally..." (since the incident). The Sheriff pursed his lips and glanced uneasily around the café. "Coroner says caffeine levels were normal," he confided. "Time of death around noon. But we think... We think it happened earlier in the morning -- maybe five-thirty or six." The Agent frowned, "South of the river? I saw a coffee shop on the road into town." (The Oasis.) "Don't open 'til seven," he declared. The Agent knit her brow and picked at her food. "I don't have credentials." (The weakness of her voice suggested that her remark was a statement. Not a protest.) And the Sheriff pushed a briefcase towards her. "You'll find what you need in here."