She pulled a badge from inside her jacket and identified herself as the federal agent I had spoken with on the phone. I don't recall the name she gave. She was taller than I had expected, but not too tall -- maybe five-nine or ten. Auburn hair pushed behind her ears, gold-rimmed glasses. Very authoritative demeanor. "One body," I told her, as we walked over frozen ground. "Female, about 30, stuffed into the trunk." ...and abandoned here, in a barren cornfield twenty-seven minutes southwest of nowhere. "Nothing too unusual..." But The Agent hesitated when she saw the car. "It's blue," she realized, her breath visible in the October air. "Yeah," I confirmed, "Blue car. Old four-door sedan. '64 Chrysler, I think." She paused, as if suddenly reluctant to become involved. "You want to see the body?" I offered. The Agent frowned, but approached the open trunk to inspect our corpse. Rigid limbs coated with a thin layer of frost. Naked, discolored flesh surprisingly hard to the touch -- almost like plastic. (Frozen, I guess.) Not too much blood. "Pretty," she remarked. "But I expected the car to be white." Still frowning, The Agent peered inside the dirty glass of the driver's side windows. "Coffee?" I offered, gesturing with my thermos. She shook her head, then asked, "Who found it?" I poured myself another cup. "A couple of teens," I replied. "They were here Tuesday night, using the car as a motel room of sorts." The Agent pulled open a rear door and inspected the inside hinges. "It's been painted," she deducted with satisfaction. "A white sedan after all." I shrugged, "Okay..." (So what?) She climbed into the back seat. "Blood," she remarked, eyeing faint smears. I nodded, "It's the girl's. The high school kid, I mean. Um... She was a virgin, I guess." The Agent resumed her frown. "You sure about that?" she wondered. "Well, no. I mean... Yeah, we're sure it's her blood. But about it being her first time..." I left my explanation unfinished. "So," The Agent postulated, reclining on the car seat, "the girl was here, probably situated like this... And she saw the hand." (The corpse's fingers -- conspicuously sticking out between back seat upholstery and the car's frame. It was possible the rear backrest had been removed, and the body stuffed into the trunk from the inside.) "Yeah," I confirmed. "After they had sex -- in the dark -- the kid lit a cigarette, and that's when she saw it." The Agent shook her head skeptically. "Well," she observed, "the front seat is pushed all the way forward. Still, there's not a lot of room back here." I shrugged again as The Agent continued her survey of the car's interior. Finally, she asked me to "Get in." I set my coffee on the sedan's roof, and climbed into the back seat area. She gestured for me to close the door, which I did. "They probably kissed first," she speculated. I sat motionless on the cold vinyl, watching her think. "Well..." she said, her breath still visible in the chilled air, "Don't you want to kiss me?" I sighed, not quite sure where she was going with this, "Okay." The Agent leaned towards me, and I kissed her lips. I felt her warm breath on my face. We kissed again, longer this time, and she (not so gently) bit my lip. "You're not kissing like a high school kid," she remarked, "Work with me on this." I put an arm around her shoulder and kissed her again, harder. "Better." The Agent placed my other hand under her jacket, against her breast, and I started caressing as she unzipped her pants. "Help me," she insisted. "Huh?" She seemed slightly irritated. "I could be wrong, but I don't think copious foreplay was indulged in," she theorized. "Let's go." I started tugging on her pants, but without much avail. "Awfully cramped quarters," I remarked (uneasily). The Agent squinted, "You've never done it in the back of a car?" I looked at her, about one quarter undressed. "No, I haven't." She raised an eyebrow. "Well," she told me, "you don't have to take yours off. Just down." She obtrusively lifted an ankle in front of my face. "Here," she said, "Pull." Eventually, we were both sufficiently disrobed, but our narrow confines allowed for some decidedly poor angles. I tried kissing her again, but she turned her head. "Can you ... recline ... any lower?" I asked. "No." (She wasn't helping much.) Eventually, I worked my way inside -- although not very deeply -- and she began rocking her hips in a confoundingly erratic manner. As I moved forward, she moved back. Absurdly unrhythmic -- no synchronization whatsoever. "Just lending... some authenticity," she panted, "Hurry up." (I would rather have stopped altogether.) Finally, it was over, and we hastily separated to our respective sides of the car. "Okay," she said clinically, "That was sufficiently terrible." (Indeed, it was.) "But accurate, I expect." The car's interior was still very cold (despite our ephemeral interlude, which had effectively fogged the windows), but she made no motion to dress. "Now," said The Agent, adjusting her glasses, "this is when he lit the cigarette, and she saw those fingers." I was breathing heavily, struggling with my own zipper. "Yeah, well... I don't have a cigarette." The Agent shook her head. "Not important," she concluded. "I think we can imagine that part." She pursed her lips in thought for another moment, then said, "But I would like some coffee now."