Sleep stood outside the bar smoking a cigarette. He had smoked close to an entire pack. Even though he didn’t smoke. Tonight the Sox were playing the Yankees at Fenway. Final game of the season, a make-up game for last night’s rainout. Sold out, as usual. Anyone who couldn’t get tickets packed into the bars, especially college kids who took advantage of any excuse to get wasted on a weeknight. Inside the bar, half the televisions were tuned in to the Sox game and the other half were on Monday Night Football.

He practiced blowing smoke rings to kill time. He wasn’t very good at it. Finally, the girl stepped out of the bar. She was beautiful, even after a night of drinking. The boy, her boyfriend, was handsome, but not good-looking enough to be with her. Maybe deep down the boy knew that somehow he’d lucked into dating a goddess. Recognized that this was the only time in his life he would be with someone like her.

Sleep saw that the boy would take full advantage of her if he could. The boy put his arm around her, kissing her cheek as they stumbled down the street.

They were heading back toward her apartment. Sleep had hoped they would do that. The boy was talking loud and laughing, thinking he’d get lucky.

Not tonight. Sleep’s van was parked one block ahead. Right where the boy’s luck would run out.

Sleep flipped the cigarette into the sidewalk and crossed the street. He made it to the corner well ahead of the couple. Crossing back over to their side of the street, he watched as they made their way along the sidewalk. When they were a few car lengths from the van, he walked toward them. He reached them as they passed the van. He bumped into the boy. Pretending to get knocked off balance, Sleep took a pratfall onto the concrete.

Even in their drunken state, they had their manners. The boy stuck out a hand and helped him to his feet.

“Hey, I know you,” the girl said, giggling. She had a stiff smile etched on her face. She was very drunk. “You’re the guy that-”

“Oh, yeah,” the boy said. “I remember. Are you okay, mister?” He brushed off the back of Sleep’s jacket.

“You kids are out late,” Sleep said. “Don’t you have classes tomorrow?”

The girl giggled.

“Watching the game,” the boy said. He pulled her close to him again, more to hold her up than anything. He was tugging at her, trying to get her to move away.

Sleep looked at her eyes and smiled, then turned to the boy. “Where do you live?” As if he didn’t know.

“Just up Comm Ave.,” the boy said.

“Why don’t I give you a lift? Make sure you get there in one piece. This is my van right here.”

The young Romeo took an assessing look at the girl. She could barely stand, her eyes were half closed. He knew what the boy was thinking. Get her back to her apartment before she threw up or passed out. The sooner, the better.

“Sure,” he said, “we’ll take a ride.”

He helped the boy arrange her in the passenger’s seat, strapping on her seat belt. Then he led the boy around the work van, explaining that he didn’t like to use the rear and side doors. He didn’t mention that they had been covered with insulation. He’d taken the bulb out of the overhead light too. He directed the boy to climb over the driver’s seat and sit on an empty five-gallon paint bucket between the two seats.

The boy adjusted himself on his makeshift chair. Sleep put in his ear plugs. The girl was slumped over in her seat. Sleep closed the door, hit the automatic lock button, and turned toward the boy. He pulled the gun from his holster, and in one motion, put it to the boy’s chest and pulled the trigger. Sleep was ready for the recoil this time. The boy flew back onto the large canvas set up in back. The canvas covered a plastic tarp. An effective way to minimize the mess.

The shot woke the girl from her stupor. She looked around, stunned by the blast of the gunshot. She looked at the gun in his hand and turned to look at the boy’s body sprawled in the back of the van. It was a few seconds before she could put all the pieces together. When it all fit, she screamed. No one could hear her. The soundproofing muffled the shot, so it would certainly stifle her cries of fear.

He casually removed the earplugs. He wanted to enjoy her death with all of his senses.

She reached for the door handle, fumbled around, clawing for it, but it wasn’t there. It had been removed a long time ago.

He felt her stiffen when he undid her seat belt, slid it gently off her shoulder, and wrapped his fingers around her throat. He had her from behind, which was a good thing. It made it more difficult for her to scratch at his face. She struggled to get away from him, but he held a firm grip. He didn’t want her to hurt herself in the struggle. The last thing he wanted was to damage her perfect face.

He pulled her close, away from the door, away from any hard surfaces, protecting her. He dragged her into the back of the van, her arms and legs flailing.

Then he squeezed.

Connie made his way toward Peter’s Hill and stopped at the yellow crime scene tape. He stood on Bussey Street at the base of the hill near a dozen police cars. The message had come across the alpha pager twenty minutes earlier. Two bodies, one male and one female, discovered by a runner in the Arnold Arboretum. This was an upscale neighborhood. All the old houses were being bought up and renovated by a new generation. More gentrified by the day.

He had been on his way to meet Greene and Ahearn at the station, but when he got the page, his plans for the evening changed. He didn’t have much going with them anyway. Not since Shawn Tinsley’s death. With a shooter like Tinsley out of the picture, things would quiet down in District 2.

Connie kept an eye out for Alves. He’d already called the DA’s office and spoken with the chief of homicide. He wanted them to know that there was no need to page the Homicide Response ADA. Connie would handle things at the scene and give updates.

Connie skirted the perimeter of the crime scene, taking in as much as he could, which was very little. He was familiar with the area. When he was a teenager, Peter’s Hill was a popular place for parties. The gentle rise of tree-covered ground provided a spectacular view of downtown Boston at night. And it offered plenty of hideaways if a couple wanted to slip away for some privacy. From where he stood, the police seemed focused on one of those spots, well off the paved path that looped around the hill.

He saw Alves and a familiar figure lumbering from a thicket. Wayne Mooney. He was carrying a stack of small, numbered orange cones that he was using to mark evidence. Working slowly around the scene, Alves gestured to the criminalists and directed the photographer.

Connie could provide valuable information about Peter’s Hill. He could point out the different entrances to the park and the best place to conceal a vehicle if someone was trying to drop something off unnoticed. The killer had done that with two bodies. If the investigators looked in the right spots, they might find tire treads or shoe imprints in the dirt paths near one of the entrances.

Angel Alves acknowledged Connie with a nod. That was all he needed. Alves was balking a little at letting him into this case, but Mooney had liked his ideas on the fortunes. One of the two would let him know when he could have access to the crime scene. Then he could dig deeper into what this killer was about. When things started to fit together, he could point Alves and Mooney in the right direction.