“Call 911. Get Chapman some backup from the precinct, okay?”

They both looked startled, and I had to repeat the demand, explaining who Hassett was, to get them to make the call.

I opened the door of the department car and removed Mike’s folder, looking for the court order. I started back over to where he and Bobby Hassett were going head-to-head.

“I don’t understand you,” Mike said. “If it was someone I loved-if it were my sister-and you come along telling me we can maybe solve a crime, find her killer-I don’t care if it’s fifty years later, I’d be so thrilled to get the motherfucker I’d move heaven and earth.”

One eye was on my watch. Forty-five seconds since the 911 call was placed. Officer needs assistance was bound to get a rapid response.

“Yeah, well, you’re not moving this piece of earth.”

I handed Mike the exhumation order, thinking it might help him to have some law to back up his reason.

He flipped the page to the judge’s signature and turned it around so Hassett could read the bottom line. Instead, Hassett swung his arm wildly and knocked the papers out of Mike’s hand.

I bent to retrieve them as Mike signaled the quartet of gravediggers to move in. A minute and a half later, and Bobby Hassett was becoming more agitated, his face reddening and his eyes bulging.

The four workmen picked up their tools and began a solemn march toward Rebecca’s grave.

Hassett waited until they were alongside him, then lurched at the first man, trying to take hold of the long wooden handle of his shovel. Mike took a step forward, wincing as his full weight landed on his bad ankle, and grabbed Hassett’s right arm.

Bobby Hassett spun on his heel and threw his fist at Mike’s face, missing narrowly. The other men backed off as Mike held out both arms to try to calm his opponent down.

It was more than two minutes-two and a half-before the peaceful cemetery air vibrated with the sound of a distant siren.

Hassett punched again, and Mike, unable to dance away on his lame leg, was nailed in the shoulder.

“Don’t be crazy, Bobby,” I said. “Don’t get yourself locked up over this.”

He paid no attention to me and lashed out again, without success.

The siren was getting louder. The gravediggers turned their backs to the commotion and huddled together while Evan Silbey ran for the shelter of Mike’s car. The driver of the morgue vehicle had stayed on the phone-with the operator, I guessed-to let her know when the cops arrived.

The patrol car came from the west, speeding down the gently undulating hill. The two officers parked in the middle of the road, running over toward us.

I flashed my gold-and-blue shield-a prosecutorial copy of the NYPD badge-and identified myself. “That’s Mike Chapman-Homicide-in the blue blazer.”

The younger cop made a beeline for Bobby Hassett, while the older one laughed and took his time. “I worked with Mikey when he was breaking in. I oughta let this one go ten rounds, for all the aggravation he gave me.”

The uniformed rookie wrestled Hassett to the ground and restrained him until his partner caught up and rear-cuffed the silent, sullen man.

“Is it a collar, Mikey?” the older one asked, patting Chapman on the shoulder. “You get him for assaulting you, or did you start up with him?”

“No arrest, Jesse. Just let him cool down. I can’t blame him for taking a shot at me.”

Mike crouched next to Bobby Hassett. “Nice try. I might have done the same thing in your circumstance. Now, we’re going ahead with what we gotta do whether you like it or not. Me personally, Bobby? I’d recommend you get in your car and get out of here. You wanna see how we handle this? Then you’re doing it from the back of Jesse’s RMP, hands behind your back with your mouth shut. I’ll let you know every detail of anything we find out. I promise you she’ll be in good hands.”

Mike paused to get an answer. “What’s your call?”

Hassett raised his head off the ground. The radio motor patrol car obviously didn’t interest him. “I’ll go. Lemme up and I’ll go.”

Mike nodded at the two cops, who released their prisoner and stepped back while he got to his feet.

We all watched as Bobby Hassett walked to the foot of Bex’s grave, lowered himself onto one knee, made the sign of the cross, and bowed his head. Tears fell over the reddened rims of his lids, and with his thick fingers he wiped them off his cheeks. I closed my eyes and thought of the sister he had lost so long ago.

After a minute or so, he stood up, glared at me with whatever energy he had left, and headed across to his car. The patrol car was blocking his way, so he backed up into the intersection and gassed the Toyota as he drove away from us.

Again, Mike waved the workmen on to begin opening the Hassett grave. He talked to the cops and convinced them to stay at the site to make sure no other unexpected visitors interfered with our grim task.

Then he told me to follow him and we walked back to his car. “There’s nothing to see, Coop. Might as well wait over here. Let them do what they gotta do.”

Just as we leaned against the car, another Crown Vic approached. The two men got out and smiled at me, then introduced themselves to Mike.

“Heads or tails?” I heard one of them say. “Heads we get to keep her, tails she goes downtown with you.”

“You’re too late, guys,” Mike said. “We just got permission from the family.”

“What? Who’re you kidding?” The detectives looked at each other before the one in charge spoke. “Jefferson said they ain’t cooperating. He wants the body, Chapman.”

“Bobby Hassett just left us, isn’t that right, Ms. Cooper? All you had to do yesterday was talk nice to him, guys. Guess you couldn’t even get that right. We reached an understanding with him, didn’t we? Like gentlemen.”

“We did, actually. I suggest you find him before you embarrass yourselves,” I said, returning their smiles and thinking of Battaglia’s directive to me. “Mike seemed to have gotten to him this morning. Maybe his technique was a little different than whatever you and your prosecutors told him.”

It had taken less than a quarter of an hour for one of the men to strike his shovel against the lid of Rebecca Hassett’s coffin. I heard the metal edge crack against the wood and turned to look.

The detectives went over to the guys from the morgue to see what story could be coaxed from them, but since the duo were from Manhattan-not the Bronx satellite office of the medical examiner-they weren’t planning to return to First Avenue without the body either.

Another half hour and the diggers were waist-deep in the hole they had made, wedging the wooden box up as they secured it with straps in order to raise it onto the ground. It appeared to be made of simple pine, intact but showing obvious signs of rot on each of the corners.

Mike had gone back over to the grave. He crouched beside the coffin-probably offering a prayer, much as Bobby Hassett had done minutes earlier-then brushed some of the dirt off the worn lid before directing the men to load it into the van for the ride to the morgue.

The driver stood next to the rear door. “Don’t you want them to open it here? Take a peek? Make sure it’s who you’re looking for? That’s how we usually do it.”

“Nothing’s been going according to plan with this. I want her out of here before anybody else shows up, okay? Let’s just get her downtown,” Mike said. “I’ll be right behind you.”

We drove slowly up to the corner of the next plot and followed the van as it made a U-turn to retrace its route to Woodlawn’s entrance. As we passed the Hassett grave again, the men were filling the hole with the dirt that had been displaced.

Mike paused at the intersection, and my eyes were drawn by the movement of something dark off to my right. The ornate headstone that marked the border of the Primrose section of the cemetery had a large relief carving on its face-a weeping mother mourning the effigy of her curly-haired child, a sculpted robe covering her arched back.