“Why you think? Po-po don’t shut everything down cuz some nigga got shot.”

He was right. This wasn’t the response for a dead brother. That morning, police had closed off a small area while they investigated Wheeler’s death. There’d been a couple of detectives and a kid from the crime lab working the case. All around them, the golfers continued their games like Wheeler’s body was a squirrel dead in the street, making their way around the inconvenience of the crime scene tape as if it were another sand trap. Luther had recognized the sergeant in charge of the scene earlier. Ray Figgs from Homicide. Luther knew him from the neighborhood. Sergeant Figgs grew up in Roxbury and knew everyone on the street. At one time he was one of the top homicide investigators. Now, word was, he was more interested in Johnnie Walker than George Wheeler.

“What happened?” Luther asked.

“White boy and his woman. Dead. Now you see po-po try to catch the dude that did the shit. Already closed the park. Brought in the dogs. Next be the Feds trying to squeeze everyone.”

Luther felt the heat of anger rise in his chest. He had seen this before. Feeling like this was what got him his prison time. Ten years ago, Marcus was murdered and the police did nothing. Luther had stood by, the helpless kid brother, watching his mother come to see that her oldest son’s life meant nothing to anybody but the two of them. Before Marcus got shot, Luther had never been in any trouble. Never arrested for trespassing or disorderly. And, back then, everybody in Roxbury was stopped by the police and questioned. If you talked back, you had a disorderly charge for your record. Stand on school property and you got yourself a trespassing. But when Marcus died, Luther had to square things.

Marcus was not dead and buried a month when the white kid-couples first started getting themselves killed. The newspapers were all over the police to catch the killer. Prom Night this and that killer. Now, ten years later, it was as though it was happening again. No one cared about George Wheeler. Two white kids get whacked and the National Guard gets called out. Black kid gets killed and they bring in the washed up brother with a badge.

Connie watched Alves direct the investigation, noticed how he didn’t bark out orders like Wayne Mooney. Since Connie and the detectives had arrived, Alves had expanded the crime scene, closing the street and sealing off the perimeter of Franklin Park. This kept the media and spectators out. It also allowed the K-9 units to search for a potential suspect in the park without distraction. The more experienced patrolmen were taking the names of the gawkers who had gathered along the street and recording the plate numbers of the cars in the area before clearing the park.

Once Alves had the area secured, he focused on processing the crime scene. The detective would gradually work his way from the outside in, toward the most important pieces of evidence, the bodies of the victims. Connie watched as Alves took a minute to survey the area, planning his attack.

“Hey, Angel,” Connie called out. This was his best chance to get Alves’s attention before he got consumed by the crime scene.

Alves turned toward Connie and nodded. Then he looked back up at the hill. Even though the klieg lights lit up the area, nothing was visible beyond the woods from this vantage point.

Alves spoke with a couple of the civilian criminalists, pointing toward the hill. Then he walked over to Connie and the detectives.

“We were out looking for a witness on a shooting when we heard your call.” Connie pointed to the detectives. “Mark Greene and Jackie Ahearn, they work out of B-two. This is Angel Alves.”

“Nice to see you guys again,” Alves said. He paused, turning back to the hill for another look.

“Anything you want us to do, just say the word,” Greene said.

“I’ll put you to work then,” Alves said. “I’ve got a crime scene up there that’s as close to pristine as I’m ever going to get. I don’t think anyone’s touched a thing, except for the killer. My daughter saw one of the bodies at the end of practice.”

“Jesus,” Connie said. “Is Iris okay?”

“I don’t know. Marcy took her home.” Alves looked over toward the street. Like he could see the twins and his wife, safe in their car, headed home. His face was creased with worry. “I got up there right after the kids. Secured everything, touched nothing. If we process this thing right, maybe we come up with something.”

“Where do we come in?” Ahearn asked.

“The bodies are in about twenty-five feet from the edge of the woods. I’m treating the wooded area as the immediate crime scene. The killer had to get them in there somehow. I want to search the area between Veterans Drive and the dump site.”

“They weren’t killed here?” Connie asked.

“I don’t think so. I’d like to know how he got them up there without being noticed.”

“He must have parked somewhere close by and carried them up there,” Greene said.

“Exactly. You guys are going to grab as many patrolmen and detectives as you can and walk parallel lines from the street to the edge of the woods and back.”

“I’ll call the DA with an update,” Connie asked.

“Good. I don’t need you finding evidence and becoming a witness. The DA doesn’t want that either.” Alves turned back to Greene. “I need you and your men to search your lanes until you’ve covered the area from the street to the edge of the woods. You know the drill. Look for anything that might be relevant-tire tracks, footprints, candy wrappers, cigarette butts, discarded clothing.”

“Are the victims missing clothes?” Connie asked.

“They’re dressed like they’re going to a prom. I’ve got a feeling they weren’t dressed like that before they were killed.”

“Why does that sound familiar to me?” Ahearn asked.

Alves motioned with his hands for them to move in closer. “We’re trying to keep this quiet. We think it might be the Prom Night Killer.”

“I thought he was dead,” Ahearn said.

“He hasn’t killed anyone in ten years. Not that we know of. But the way the bodies are dressed, looks like his work.”

In the unnatural glare of the lights, the concentrated silence of the men and women intent on their duties, the cool night air full of purpose, Connie knew this wasn’t an ordinary murder scene. They were dealing with a serial killer. A killer who had outwitted Alves’s old boss, Sergeant Detective Wayne Mooney, and the Boston Police Department for more than a decade. “Should we take a look at the bodies?” he asked, pulling a pair of latex gloves out of his back pocket.

“You and your obsession with crime scenes.” Alves showed a little smile.

“You don’t know the half of it.” Connie laughed. “Do we get to see them?”

“I tell you what, you guys do a good job searching every inch of ground leading up that hill while I process the bodies and the rest of the crime scene, and I’ll give you a quick walk-through before the ME takes them away. But don’t go near them until I say it’s okay. I’ve got to take photos, have the ME do a preliminary examination and then have the criminalists process for evidence. I don’t want to miss anything.”

“What are we waiting for?” Connie said to Greene and Ahearn. “You guys get started. I’ll make my call.”