Alves had had enough of his quiet house. Late-night cups of coffee alone. No line for the bathroom. He wanted Marcy and the twins back home where they belonged. “Let’s flip a coin. Can I buy you a coffee?” he asked, knowing Mooney never refused anything free.

The early morning sun shone through the windows of the catwalk at UMass Boston. Connie watched the students changing classes. They moved in slow groups, texting and talking on their cell phones.

He’d come prepared with subpoenas for four professors. Zardino’s math teacher was dead, and his psychology and economics professors had nothing to add, as the classes were held in lecture halls with hundreds of students.

One old-timer left to talk to.

He took the elevator to the sixth floor and checked the office schedules on the wall outside the main office. He located the office he was looking for and took a seat at a small round table designed for students to meet with their tutors. On the table was a stack of school newspapers, the Mass Media. He thumbed through the pages full of safety tips: avoid being alone in the deserted spots like the library’s upper floors, and always walk to isolated parking spots with a friend. The school was implementing a Safe Escort program that would operate nights and Saturdays. It was his habit to read everything-from the front page to the sports reports.

He was almost finished when he saw the quarter-page announcement for an upcoming lecture.

Brown Bag Lecture Series

Learn how unjust our criminal justice system is. Meet Rich Zardino, a man who spent eight years in prison for a crime he didn’t commit. Hear, in his own words, about his nightmare. His is a story told with power and emotion. Don’t miss it.

Cookies and beverages provided by the Anarchists Club

Sponsored by the Philosophy Club

It seemed Richard Zardino was everywhere.

When she finally showed up, herbal tea in hand, Zardino’s silver-haired English professor held Connie up for what seemed like an hour while she dug through old mimeographed files and dusty student essays. But it was worth the time. Richard Zardino, student in English 101, section 18, had written an essay about a myth. “Sleep, and Death, his brother, dwelt in the lower world. Dreams too ascended from there to men. They passed through two gates, one of horn through which true dreams went, one of ivory for false dreams.” The professor had given him an F, with the notation: “Source is Edith Hamilton. Always properly cite your sources.” The plagiarized essay was presented to the Dean of Students, who promptly ruled that Richard Zardino receive an F for a class grade.

Within a month, Kelly Adams and Eric Flowers were dead.

No one would be in the office yet, not on a Saturday morning… except for one person.

It was a little after seven a.m. when Connie stepped into the assignment office where the closed case files were archived. Jason Reece had worked in the office for close to twenty years. He had started in the assignment office out of college, and he took his job seriously. He was the first one in every day, including Saturdays, making sure he kept the information in his database active.

Every time he went near Jason’s office, Connie stopped in to say hello and chat. A rabid Bruins fan, Jason was always willing to talk about the good old days when the NHL let the Black and Gold inflict a lot more black and blue. His ultimate fantasy would be an early ’70s home game at the old Garden-not an unobstructed seat in the house-with the Philadelphia Flyers, the Broad Street Bullies, in town to take on the Big Bad Bruins. Every hockey fan in Boston knew they would never witness that style of hockey again.

“Hey, Jay,” Connie called out. But Jason wasn’t at his desk. He was in, though. Otherwise the door would have been locked. Not so much to protect the files that were stored there, but the Bruins memorabilia on the walls. They were covered with autographed photos and sticks and pucks. There was a 1972 pennant signed by Derek Sanderson, Bobby Orr and Pie McKenzie and a framed, autographed Cam Neely jersey.

“What’s up, Connie?” Jason popped out of the back room where the case files were stored. “You’re here early.”

“I’m trying to draft an opposition to a motion for a new trial that’s due next week. Could you pull a file for me? It has some good motions and oppositions that I can use as samples.”

“Case name, buddy?”

“It’s an old one, but the motions were just heard within the last few years. I’m hoping you haven’t sent it off to the state archives. Defendant’s name is Richard Zardino.”

“I remember that one. He got a new trial.”

Connie nodded. “The DA eventually had us assent to the motion. Then we dismissed the case. But the motions that were filed early on were good. Mind if I take a look through the file? I’ll get it back to you Monday morning, first thing.”

“No hurry. Keep it as long as you want. Let me see if I still have it.”

“Jason,” Connie called. “Nine days, thirteen hours, and fifteen minutes.”

“You’re the man, Connie,” Jason called back. “Can’t wait for that first puck to drop.”

Alves lay in bed listening to the comforting sound of the shower running. The twins would wake up any minute. Then everyone would rush around getting ready for church, just like it used to be, before the killings started again. And after church, there was the big dinner at Marcy’s mother’s house, where Marcy and the twins were bunking out. They were back for the weekend-so Marcy could catch up on the laundry and her paperwork for school. Give him a taste of all he was missing.

Even with all the pleasant distractions, Alves couldn’t keep his mind off work. After his conversation with John Bland, he understood that it was at least a possibility that Mitch Beaulieu was not the Blood Bath Killer. That meant that someone else was. Because his old friend from the neighborhood, Robyn Stokes, was one of that killer’s victims, he couldn’t talk to Marcy about his doubts. Robyn had been one of Marcy’s best friends growing up, and Marcy was already nerved up enough about the Prom Night killings, never mind rehashing cases they all considered closed.

The last person he could talk to was Wayne Mooney. Mooney hated the feds. His last face-to-face meeting with John Bland and his partner had ended in a dustup of epic proportions. He’d basically thrown the feds off the case and gotten himself launched to Evidence Management. Besides, the Blood Bath case was closed. Solved. Why open up all the grief for the victims’ families and friends? For the Department? Still…

It bothered Alves not to tell Marcy. Despite their recent problems, they had a strong marriage. They trusted each other and kept no secrets. He couldn’t think of any other way to put it. They knew each other at the core.

The shower stopped and he could hear Marcy singing “Winter Wonderland.” Down the hall, he could hear the twins giggling. Slowly, things would return to normal. It would be great to sit in the stuffy church, go through the paces-up-down-kneel-stand. Great to offer a silent prayer that his family seemed to be coming through the horror of the past few weeks. His wife was humming, his children were outside the bedroom door, arguing over which one of them got to turn the doorknob. In that peaceful moment of thankfulness, a thought came to him.

How do you find out who a man really is?

Simple enough.

You go talk to the woman.