“Is it standard procedure for a child to get a chest X-ray?” McCain asked.

Green said, “It isn’t part of a routine childhood checkup. You don’t want to expose kids to X-rays without reason. But with severe croup that doesn’t resolve, a bad bronchitis, suspected pneumonia-sure, he could’ve taken a chest X-ray.”

“Time to talk to Julius’s pediatrician.”

“We’d need Ellen’s permission,” Dorothy said. “I don’t want to give her this kind of news right now. It’s just too tragic.” She looked at the team doctor. “Dr. Green, you said you spoke with the coach at Julius’s high school and they had X-rays?”

Green nodded.

“Let’s start there, compare their X-rays to these. At least we’ll find out if he used the same substitute.”

McCain said, “Where’d he go to high school?”

Coach Ryan said, “St. Paul’s.”

“St. Paul’s in Newton?” Dorothy asked.

“Yes,” President McCallum said. “Like most of our students, he was local.”

McCain said, “Onward to Newton. Always liked the burbs in winter.”

St. Paul’s graced seven acres of rolling, high-priced Newton hills. The institution was basic New England prep. Episcopal school, but a sign on the colonial-era chapel said “Services are voluntary. Everyone is a child of God.”

The head coach was Jim Winfield, another ex-NBA benchwarmer, nearly seven feet tall with a shaved head, a goatee, and the sculpted face of a Maori warrior.

Black is beautiful, thought Dorothy. What would it be like to live with a man with that kind of presence?

Like Ryan, Winfield seemed numbed by Julius’s death. He told the detectives he did indeed remember a call from Boston Ferris inquiring about Julius Van Beest’s chest X-rays.

“I don’t remember if it was Dr. Green or Al Ryan. I know both of them quite well because over the past years, we’ve done lots of cross-referencing. So to speak.”

They were sitting in his office, a generous, oak-paneled space lined with trophy-stuffed display cases. The school had gone first place in football, basketball, baseball, soccer, hockey, tennis, swimming, polo, fencing, and lacrosse. St. Paul’s took its athletics very seriously.

“And what did you talk about to whoever it was?” Dorothy asked.

“I don’t remember the exact conversation, ma’am,” Winfield said. “It was over three years ago. They wanted to know if Julius always brought in his own chest X-rays and I told him that all of our kids playing sports brought in their own. We don’t have X-ray facilities.”

There was a knock at the door. A hulking teenage boy, attired in gray flannel slacks, a white shirt, blue blazer, and rep tie, came into the office, carrying several manila envelopes.

Nice threads, thought McCain. Better than he’d ever worn, including at his own father’s funeral.

“Ah… here we go,” Winfield said. “Thanks, Tom. How’s the ankle doing?”

“Better and better each day, Coach.”

“Good to hear.”

Tom smiled and left.

Winfield shook his head. “The kid twisted his ankle before a big game and played through the injury. What started out as a sprain turned into a torn ligament.”

“That’s terrible,” Dorothy said. “Where were the parents?”

“I don’t think they knew. These kids drive themselves crazy. They’re all after the same scholarships, and the competition is fierce. It’s terrible, but it’s a fact of life.” He handed the envelopes to Change. “Here you go, Doctor.”

The ME said, “I’m surprised the school kept Julius’s medical records this long.”

“We keep everything for ten years, then it goes onto microfilm.” Winfield smiled. “St. Paul’s has a strong sense of history. A lot of alumni get famous, or at least well known.”

Change pulled the radiographic image from Julius’s senior year and held it to the window. The light wasn’t perfect, but it was enough to illuminate the same bifid rib.

The detectives sighed in frustration.

“Are they all the same?” Dorothy asked.

“Let’s find out,” Change said. He took out another film.

“What are you looking for?” Winfield asked.

Change pointed to the supernumerary rib. “This is what we’re looking for.”

Winfield squinted. “Oh… I see. The bone is split. Does that mean anything?”

“It means that this isn’t an X-ray of Julius Van Beest,” Change said.

“What?” Winfield asked. “I’m confused. What’s going on?”

“We wish we knew.” McCain turned to Dorothy. “You tell him.”

Winfield listened, his eyes widening in shock as Dorothy related the events of the last few days. When she was done, Winfield slapped his hand against his cheek. “Lord, I had no idea.”

“Apparently, nobody did,” Dorothy said. “Why would anyone assume the boy was trying to hide something?”

The third image was identical to the other two. McCain blew out air. “Looks like we’re going to have to trace his medical history even further back.” He looked at Winfield. “Any idea whose X-ray this is?”

“Not a clue.”

Dorothy said, “Who did Julius hang with in high school?”

“He was a superstar,” Winfield told them. “He had his fan club.” The coach paused. “To tell you the truth, I was very pleased but also a little shocked when he chose college over the NBA. He was being scouted left and right. Everyone knew he had the stuff to make it in the pros. I always wondered why he didn’t make the jump. Now I realize he must have known that pro sports would be a serious risk to his health. And he must have realized that his little charade wouldn’t work in the majors. But even college sports… What was that poor boy thinking?”

“The boy was seriously misguided,” McCain said. He paused a moment, then stared at the three radiographs. “Coach, is this a three-year or a four-year high school?”

“Four years.”

Dorothy caught on. “Where’s the fourth X-ray?”

“Julius transferred to St. Paul’s in the middle of his freshman year.”

“From where?” said McCain.

“I believe he was homeschooled for two months,” Winfield said. “Before that he attended Lancaster Prep over in Brookline.”

“Why’d he transfer?”

“We gave him a full scholarship, so I assumed that was the reason. Then I found out he had had a full scholarship at Lancaster, too, so the answer is I don’t know. I always wondered what the story was, but… he did well here, and everyone was jazzed having him on board. We’d done well in every sport but b-ball. With Julius playing, that changed for the better.”

Winfield sat back in his chair and sighed. “Maybe Lancaster knew, but I didn’t.” He shook his head. “This one hurts.”

Lancaster Prep was a feeder for the Ivies. Its approach was old-fashioned, and its donors were old money. Episcopal, too, but here there was no opting out. The student population was well into its seventh generation of legacies, the exception being the athletes that Lancaster recruited hyperactively. Winning the yearly homecoming football game against Xavier was high-priority.

Yet another coach, yet another retired third-string basketball pro. Richard Farnsworth, a six-three guard who’d gone to fat, had played six seasons with eight different teams. By his own account, he was a workaholic, and it was unusual not to find him either in his office or on the court.

Farnsworth’s office was compact and functional and also filled with trophies. He sat at his desk, ran his hand through shocks of curly gray hair, said, “Don’t waste your time going through medical records. The school doesn’t have them. When Julius left the school, his paperwork left with him.”

“There was a problem,” said Change.

Farnsworth scowled. “I was threatened with a huge civil lawsuit and dismissal if I spoke about it to anyone. Medical confidentiality and all that.”

“The boy is dead, and this is a murder investigation,” Dorothy said.

“What are you talking about?” said Farnsworth. “Julius was shot.”