So far, none of the tales had frightened off the developers. The Audubon Society had secured one corner of the property, turning it into a popular nature preserve. Major construction was currently under way on a brand-new lab for UMass, while Mattapan buzzed with rumors of public housing, or maybe a new high school.

Progress happened. Even to haunted mental institutions.

Bobby turned around the far corner of the cemetery and finally spotted the party. There, in the left-hand corner of the site: Giant beams of light burst through the skeletal beech trees, pushing against the dense, moonless night. More lights, tiny pinpricks of red and blue, zigzagging through the trees as additional police cars sped up the winding road toward one corner of the property. He waited to see the outline of the former hospital, a relatively small, three-story ruin, come into view, but the patrol cars veered away, heading deeper into the woods instead.

D.D. hadn't been lying. BPD had a scene, and judging by the traffic, it was a big one.

Bobby finished his loop of the cemetery. One minute to ETA, he passed through the yawning black gate and headed for the ruins on the hill.

HE CAME TO the first patrol officer almost immediately. The BPD cop was standing in the middle of the road, wearing an orange safety vest and armed with a high-beam flashlight. Kid looked barely old enough to shave. He arranged his face into a fine scowl, however, as he scrutinized Bobby's shield, then grunted suspiciously when he realized Bobby was with the state police.

"Sure you got the right place?" Kid asked.

"Dunno. I plugged 'crime scene' into MapQuest and this is what it spit out."

Kid regarded him blankly Bobby sighed. "Got a personal invite from Detective Warren. If you got a problem, take it up with her."

"You mean Sergeant Warren?"

"Sergeant? Well, well, well."

Kid slapped Bobby's creds back into his hand. Bobby headed up the hill.

The first abandoned building appeared on his left, multipaned windows winking back twin reflections of his headlights. The brick structure sagged on its foundation, front doors padlocked shut, roof disintegrated from the inside out.

Bobby took a right, passing a second structure, which was smaller, and in even greater disrepair. Cars were stacking up roadside now, parked bumper-to-bumper as detectives' vehicles, ME's van, and crime-scene technicians all vied for space.

The spotlights beckoned farther out, however. A distant glow in the shrouded woods. Bobby could just hear the hum of the generator, brought in on the crime-scene van to power the party. Apparently, he had a hike ahead of him.

He parked in an overgrown field next to three patrol cars. Grabbed a flashlight, paper, and pen. Then, on second thought, a warmer jacket.

The November night was cool, down in the forties, and frosted with a light mist. No one was around, but the beam of his flashlight illuminated the trampled path blazed by the death investigators who'd come before him. His boots made heavy tromping sounds as he went.

He could still hear the generator, but no voices yet. He ducked beneath some bushes, feeling the earth grow marshy beneath his feet before firming up again. He passed a small clearing, noticed a refuse pile-rotting wood, bricks, some plastic buckets. Illegal dumping had been a problem on the ground for years, but most of that was by the fence line. This was too deep in. Probably leftovers from the asylum itself, or maybe one of the recent building projects. Old, new, he couldn't tell in this kind of light.

Noise grew louder, the hum of the generator building to a dull roar. He ducked his head into the collar of his jacket, shielding his ears. As a ten-year veteran patrol officer, Bobby had attended his fair share of crime scenes. He knew the noise. He knew the smell.

But this was his first scene as a bona fide detective. He thought that's why it felt so different. Then he cleared another line of trees and came to an abrupt halt.

Guys. Everywhere. Most in suits, probably fifteen, eighteen detectives and easily a dozen uniforms. Then there were the men with the graying hair in the thick woolen overcoats. Senior officers, most of whom Bobby recognized from various retirement parties for other big guns. He spotted a photographer, four crime-scene techs. Finally a lone female-if memory served she was an ADA, Assistant District Attorney

A lot of people, particularly given Boston's long-standing policy of demanding a written report from anyone who entered a crime scene. That had a tendency to keep gawking patrol officers out and, even more important, the brass away

But everyone was here tonight, pacing small circles in the glow of the blazing spotlights, stomping their feet for warmth. Ground zero appeared to be the blue awning erected toward the back of the clearing. But from this angle Bobby still couldn't see any signs of remains or evidence of a crime scene even beneath the protective cover of the tarp.

He saw a field, a tent, and a lot of very quiet death investigators.

It made the hairs rise up on the back of his neck.

A rustling sound came from his left. Bobby turned to see two people entering the clearing from a second path. At front was a middle-aged woman in full Tyvek, followed by a younger man, her assistant. Bobby recognized the woman immediately Christie Callahan from the OCME-Office of the Chief Medical Examiner. Callahan was the designated forensic anthropologist.

"Ah shit."

More movement. D.D. had magically emerged from beneath the blue awning. Bobby's gaze went from her pale, carefully composed features to her Tyvek-covered clothes to the inky darkness behind her.

"Ah shit," he muttered again, but it was too late.

D.D. headed straight for him.

"Thanks for coming," she said. They shared an awkward moment, both of them trying to figure out if they should shake hands, peck cheeks, something. D.D. finally stuck her hands behind her and that settled matters. They would be professional acquaintances.

"Wouldn't want to disappoint a sergeant," Bobby drawled.

D.D. flashed a tight smile at the acknowledgment of her new title, but didn't comment; now was not the time nor place.

"Photographer's already done the first round of shooting," she said briskly "We're waiting for the videographer to wrap up, then you can go down."

"Down?"

"Scene is subterranean, entrance beneath the awning. Don't worry; we got a ladder in place, so it's not hard to access."

Bobby took a moment to let that sink in. "How big?"

"Chamber is approximately six by ten. We're holding it to three people max, or you can't move around."

"Who found it?"

"Kids. Discovered it last night, I guess, while engaged in some recreational drinking and/or other hobbies. Thought it was cool enough to return tonight with a flashlight. They won't do that again."

"Are they still around?"

"Nah. EMTs gave them sedatives and took them away It's for the best. They were useless to us."

"Lot of suits," Bobby commented, eyeing the area around them.

"Yeah."

"Lead detective?"

Her chin came up. "I'm the lucky duck."

"Sorry, D.D."

She grimaced, her face bleaker now that it was just the two of them. "Yeah, no shit."

The sound of a throat clearing came from behind them. "Sergeant?"

The videographer had emerged from beneath the tarp and was waiting for D.D.'s acknowledgment.

"We'll shoot again in intervals," D.D. told the videographer, turning back toward the assembled masses. "Around once an hour to keep things up-to-date. You can grab a cup of coffee if you'd like, there's a thermos in the van. But keep close, Gino. Just in case."

The officer nodded, then headed for the van where the generator thundered away