“We think these victims may be related to some homicides from ten years ago,” Alves said. “Sarge was involved with the original investigation. We need to see the female to confirm that we’re dealing with the same killer.”

The ME led them into the adjoining autopsy room.

“We’re going to need you guys, too,” Mooney said to Eunice and the photographer.

The girl looked just as bad as the boy, her body showing signs of deterioration, her eyes open and covered with a cloudy, opaque film. He wondered if she really was Courtney Steadman. He prayed that she wasn’t, for her parents’ sake. But then, what did it matter? Someone’s parents were going to be devastated. For a moment Alves was back on the hill where he had seen her the night before, staring into his eyes, begging for help. She looked even worse now, lying naked on a cold steel table. A final indignity before being cut open, no longer human, just evidence.

Alves followed Mooney’s lead and put on a pair of latex gloves. Alves helped roll her onto her side and Mooney lifted the braid of long black hair off the back of her neck. He sorted through the hair at the base of her skull. Then he stopped.

Mooney shifted his body so Alves could see the base of the girl’s skull.

She had been stamped with black ink.

“Is that the Yin and Yang symbol?” the photographer asked.

Mooney nodded. “It’s called the Tai-ji.”

“What does it mean?” Eunice asked.

“It means we’re not dealing with a copycat,” Mooney said as he gently lowered Jane Doe’s head to the table. “I need to confirm one more thing.” Mooney leaned over the girl’s body, opened her mouth and looked inside.

“Angel, can I borrow your mini Mag?” Mooney said, extending his hand toward Alves. Mooney put the small flashlight in his mouth so he could use both hands to inspect her oral cavity. Then he reached in and removed a small white piece of paper.

“What is that?” Alves asked.

Mooney removed the flashlight from his mouth. “Her fortune. This is the way this guy communicated with us. A different fortune with each female victim.”

“What does it say?” Belsky asked.

Mooney motioned to Eunice Curran. She carried a piece of the brown paper to him. He placed the rumpled fortune in the center. Eunice placed the sheet on the table. With her gloved fingers, she held down the two ends of the tiny strip, then smoothed out the air pockets caused by the moisture in the girl’s mouth. Alves made out the black letters, all caps, on the thin strip.

Eunice read aloud, “DEPART NOT FROM THE PATH WHICH FATE HAS YOU ASSIGNED.”

Connie stepped out of the interview room and closed the door. Greene was still with Tracy Ward, smoking up a storm, building a rapport. That was a good thing. Maybe Greene could get him to testify. But if the court officers caught them smoking, Connie would catch hell for it.

The interview had gone well. Ward still refused to give it up in front of the grand jury, but that didn’t matter. He’d identified the shooter as Shawn Tinsley. Even given up the names of two new witnesses to the shooting.

Now they could build a case against Tinsley. If not, they might find another way to take him off the street. Either way, they had a suspect, which was more than they had when the day started. Connie walked down the corridor toward the grand jury’s main office. He’d let the grand jury chief know that he was taking the case off the list for today. No need to present any testimony now.

“Mr. Darget.”

Connie recognized the voice behind him. Sonya Jordan. His old friend Mitch Beaulieu’s ex-girlfriend. A defense attorney. A royal pain in the butt. He knew what she wanted. He turned and said, “Ms. Jordan, nice to see you again.”

“Where’s my discovery? We’re on for trial in three weeks and I still don’t have my client’s FIOs or your ballistics expert’s CV. We need to set up a time so I can look at the gun with my expert.”

“I’ll fax that stuff over to you this afternoon. And you can go over to ballistics any time you’d like. I don’t need to be there.”

“That’s fine.” She turned to walk away. “But if I don’t have my discovery this afternoon, I’ll be filing a motion with the court to impose sanctions.”

“I’m sure you will, Ms. Jordan.”

Wayne Mooney ran through the Fens, past Roberto Clemente Field and onto Avenue Louis Pasteur. He was moving at a steady pace toward Longwood Avenue, the pale gray of new buildings wedged against the weathered stone of older medical buildings. He hadn’t missed a noontime run since getting launched from the Homicide Unit to Evidence Management three years ago. At first he’d been angry with the commissioner. But, honestly, he had embarrassed the mayor during a major investigation, and he had to accept his punishment. But what the mayor and the commissioner didn’t know was all he’d had to sacrifice to work Homicide. His marriage, for one thing.

He had to make some decisions before getting too involved in the case. He was used to his relaxed schedule. No stress of homicide investigations, just sit around and watch boxes all day. He had the quiet of his apartment and the company of Biggie, his twenty-two-pound cat. A year or so ago he’d screwed up the courage to call Leslie. They’d met for tea and scones at Greenhills. That was something they’d always enjoyed doing together, sitting and looking out at the Eire Pub-coldest beer in the city-for a who’s who of Boston ’s politicians, old-school guys hanging out with the working stiffs. Seeing Leslie again, without the pressures of marriage, reminded him why he had fallen for her in the first place.

He tried to pick up his pace a little as he turned down Longwood and continued across Huntington. The steady cardiac workouts were paying off. He felt like he was forty again.

He had gotten used to the idea that his career in Homicide was over. A couple more years and he could finish out his time in the Department. Then maybe he’d get a job working security at the federal courthouse-the Palace on the Pier-keep busy and put in enough quarters to collect on Social Security. Everything was planned out. Rock solid.

Now there were two more dead kids. The MO was unmistakable. This was no copycat. He couldn’t let Alves handle the case alone. His old partner had come a long way as a Homicide detective, but he wasn’t getting any help from his new boss, Duncan Pratt.

The victims and their families deserved to have things done right. No mistakes. Nobody getting off on a technicality. The case couldn’t just be solved, it had to be gift-wrapped for the DA. And the only way that would happen is if he got himself reassigned to Homicide, reassigned to this case.

Mooney struggled down the decline of Tremont Street, watching the crowd of kids outside the Roxbury Crossing T station up ahead. They should all be in school, but he wasn’t about to play truant officer.

This case was about him too. About not having any regrets when he retired. There were other cases he still thought about, cases lost at trial. But that was the system working the way it was supposed to work. If the government couldn’t prove guilt beyond a reasonable doubt, then the guy walked. That was that. But someone had killed four young couples and hadn’t been arrested. Hadn’t been tried before a jury.

Yet.

“DEPART NOT FROM THE PATH WHICH FATE HAS YOU ASSIGNED.” A simple message. Once you cracked open your cookie and fished out the fortune, read it over the fried rice and chicken bones on your plate, had a laugh, and tossed it off, you never thought of it again. Now the fortunes found in the bodies of four dead girls haunted him.

He continued past the young truants hanging out at the station and turned onto the Southwest Corridor, the final stretch, less than a mile back to headquarters. The Corridor had been built to replace the old elevated tracks that ran along Washington Street from Forest Hill to downtown Boston, supposedly making the new Orange Line aesthetically pleasing. Instead, it proved to be an excellent place for young professionals to get robbed on their way to and from work.