Leo had never been as tall as his son, had never had quite the athletic prowess. He’d played two seasons in the NBA before being cut, spent the next fifteen years overseas, always hoping to have that one magic season that would make the scouts back home stand up and take notice again. In his young years, at six-seven, he’d been as versatile at shooting guard as at small forward. But time had not been kind to him. He was now rotund, leathery, and gray. Looked like an oversize medicine ball. Sweat beaded his brow. He pulled out a handkerchief and dried off his face.

“How’d this happen?” he demanded of Dorothy.

“We’re still investigating-”

“I don’t want bullshit! I want answers!”

“And I will be happy to give them to you as soon as I know something.”

“That’s bullshit!”

Dorothy started to speak but thought better of it.

“What motherfucker shot my son?”

“We’re still sorting out the details.”

“I want that motherfucker strung up by his neck, you understand what I’m saying?”

“Yes, sir, I do.”

“And if you people ain’t gonna do it, I know people who will.”

“Sir, the police are in control. We will find the perpetrator, I promise you.”

“Yeah, I know what a promise from the police is worth.”

Again, Dorothy didn’t reply.

Leo’s lower lip trembled. “Where is he? My son!”

“Oh Lord.” Ellen started to cry. “I can’t look at him like that, Leo. I just can’t do it!”

“I know, Ellen. I’ll do whatever needs to be done. You don’t have to do it. I’ll do it.” He faced Dorothy. “I want to see him!”

“I’ll see what I can arrange.”

“Yeah, you go do that!” Leo ordered. “You arrange it right away, Detective. Right now! ”Cause Julius don’t belong here at a police station. You understand? My son don’t belong here.“ He started to cry. ”He don’t belong here!“

Helpless, Dorothy watched their pain and misery, making her problems appear very small. “Can I call someone for either of you? A minister maybe?”

“Pastor Ewing,” Ellen said.

“Church of the Faith,” Leo added. “He can help with… with what needs help with.”

“He can make the arrangements.” Ellen wiped off her face. In a clear voice, she announced to her husband that she’d accompany him to the morgue.

“You don’t have to do it, Ellen,” Leo said. “You don’t have to.”

“I know, but I’ll do it anyway.” She stood up, swayed a moment, but then regained her balance. “We brought him into the world together. We should say good-bye together.”

“Well, that was a total bust!”

Even over her crackling cell, Dorothy heard the frustration in her partner’s voice. “Spring Mathers wasn’t home?”

“She never made it home,” McCain said. “And I had to be the one to tell her parents about the shooting in the club. They hadn’t a clue. They thought she was asleep, all tucked in cozy and warm. They charged into her bedroom, and when they found her bed still made up, they freaked. Started calling everyone they could think of to find out where she was.”

“Oh boy.”

“Yeah, oh boy!” McCain griped. “So instead of finding the one witness who may have been with Julius when he was shot, we now got a pair of hysterical parents who are filing a missing-person report and demanding answers. I’ll tell you, Dorothy, this one’s gonna bite the town in the ass. College is our tourist trade. Parents get too scared to send their kids here, we’re in trouble. I’m not talking about Harvard or MIT. Cambridge is its own fiefdom. BU is an institution, sure. But what about all the Boston schools that feed off those babies?”

He was working himself up. Dorothy tried to keep her voice even. “I know. Sometimes it would be nice if things just went right.”

There was a pause. McCain said, “I shouldn’t be bitching. Your morning wasn’t exactly coffee and the paper in bed. How’d it go with Ellen Van Beest?”

“As expected. The father was there, too. Leo. He played pro for a couple of seasons, although I don’t remember him.”

“Me, either. Jeez, I’m sorry. Must have been tough for you.”

Images of despair crept into Dorothy’s brain, of parents’ faces when the doc on the monitor took off the sheet. Luckily she was able to convince them to do it via camera. Seeing the body in person would have been just too much.

Dorothy shuddered. “I’m going to bed, Micky. I told Doc C. to wake me up when he’s done with the autopsy. I figure we’ll go down for the briefing.”

“C.”s doing the cutting himself, huh?“

Dorothy winced at his words. It made a difference, knowing the dead boy and his mother. The whole thing was nauseating. She was working hard to maintain her professionalism.

“You know what it’s like,” she said. “Big-time case. So what’s on your schedule?”

“Sleep sounds good. Who do you think put the squeeze on, the mayor or all the way up to the governor?”

“Maybe both. It happened in Boston proper, but the governor has good reason to sweep it under the rug because both colleges are in Massachusetts.” Dorothy shifted her cell from one ear to the other. “Either way, politics is going to take over. We’ll get our asses whipped if we don’t get a cut-and-dried solve.”

“Any luck finding the matching weapon?”

“Techs are still going through the confiscated firearms. If we find the right gun, maybe Pappy left a usable print behind. He wasn’t gloved when he discharged the gun. We know that from the powder marks.”

“Except most prints are smeared by the kick of the recoil.”

“Then maybe a palm print.”

“Speaking of the son of a bitch, what’s going on with Pappy?”

“He ain’t a rich boy, but someone posted bail for him.”

“Bail on murder?”

“Discharging a firearm’s all it is so far.”

McCain cursed. “Politics. Isn’t it against NCAA rules for him to take gifts? Isn’t bail a gift?”

“I doubt that’s in the rule book, Micky. And Pappy has more important things to deal with than the NCAA board.”

“Scumbag. We both know damn well that he was the shooter, even if he didn’t mean to hit Julius. Let’s just hope we can keep a good case against him. You know witnesses. Their memory gets foggy after the panic wears off. Even without politics, we gotta hope to get this nailed down in a couple of days or else things will start to get very murky.”

“Look how long it took them to arrest that kid from Baylor… What was his name?”

“Carlton Dotson,” McCain said. “Yeah, I forgot about that. What’s with these basketball players anyhow?”

The question was rhetorical. Dorothy ignored it. “What was it? Six months before they issued the warrant?”

“Difference was Dotson confessed to one of his friends that he shot the other kid-Dennehy. And it took a while because there was no body. We sure have a body, but maybe I’d trade it for a confession.”

Suddenly, Dorothy felt the crushing fatigue from the last twelve hours. “It’s a waste of time talking about it. Try to get some rest, Micky.”

“I’ll try,” McCain answered. “If I don’t succeed, there’s always drugs.”

Dorothy expected to find both boys gone, had hoped to unwind by having her tiny house to herself. Instead, they were home, their faces grave and filled with what could have been remorse for every sin they’d committed in their lifetime. Seeing a “hero” gunned down could do that to you.

Big-time remorse: They’d prepared breakfast for her: toast and jam, coffee, fresh-squeezed orange juice. Upon seeing her, Marcus marked his place in his anthropology text, and Spencer looked up from his algebra homework. They regarded their mother; she looked back at them. Dorothy spoke first.

“Don’t you boys have school?”

Marcus said, “Classes were canceled for the day.”

“What’s going on with the team?”

The older boy sighed and shrugged. “Everything’s on hold. We’ve got a meeting-the whole team’s got a meeting-at three.”