“What happened next?”

The Chief’s expression grows puzzled. “He quieted. He just stopped. He got up and sat on a bench in the hallway, outside the autopsy suite. Said he wanted to wait. To wait for Billy, he said. I assumed he meant wait for the coroner’s report on Billy.”

“Do you know what Mr. Hammond did next?”

The Chief takes another swallow of water. “He was still sitting on that bench when I left the building. I remember because I asked if I could get him a coffee-or anything.”

“What did he say?”

The Chief shakes his head. “He didn’t say a word. Didn’t even seem to hear me.”

“Chief Fitzpatrick, why did you leave the morgue?”

“I’d just gotten a call from my dispatcher. The army chopper transporting Monteros back to Chatham was in transit, due in Chatham a little before five. My night shift is thin to begin with. I needed to call in extra officers, make preparations.”

“And when was the next time you saw Mr. Hammond?”

“When I went back. He was sitting in that same spot on the bench outside the autopsy suite. I don’t think he’d moved.”

“Why did you go back to the morgue, Chief?”

“To talk to the coroner. I wanted to issue the charges before Monteros landed. Didn’t want to wait for the written autopsy report.”

Buck loses his battle with gravity and lowers his head to the defense table again. I leave his side and walk slowly across the courtroom toward the jury box. “Charges against Hector Monteros?”

“Yes.”

I lean against the wooden railing, facing the jurors again. “After speaking with the coroner, Chief, how many separate charges did you file?”

“Three.”

I study the jurors as they stare at the Chief. “What were they?”

“First-degree murder. Kidnapping. Forcible rape of a child.”

No visible reaction in the box.

I travel the length of the courtroom again, back to Buck’s side, and face the jurors in silence. I want them to look at me. When they do, I turn my own eyes to Buck.

They do too.

Silence. I want them to look hard at this man. I want them to digest the fact that on the morning of June 21, he received the same information they just did. I want them to imagine what it was like for him, receiving that information about his little boy. And I want them to react.

But they don’t.

“Chief Fitzpatrick, what was the cause of Billy Hammond’s death?”

The Chief turns from the panel to Buck, then looks up at me. “Asphyxia. The medical examiner found minute hemorrhages in the lungs and heart, meaning death was caused by a lack of oxygen. The boy suffocated.”

“Did you give Mr. Hammond that information while you were both at the morgue?”

“Yes.”

“Did you tell him what specific charges you planned to file?”

The Chief nods and turns back toward the jurors. “Yes, I did. I felt I owed him that much. Otherwise he and his wife”-the Chief gestures toward Patty with his hat and shakes his head-“they’d hear it on the radio. Or on TV. I couldn’t let that happen.”

“How did Mr. Hammond respond?”

The Chief shakes his head again, slowly. “He didn’t. He never said a word.”

“Your office later received the results of DNA tests conducted on both Monteros and Billy Hammond, is that right, Chief?”

“Yes.”

“Were they conclusive?”

He nods. “They were.”

“Tell the panel, if you will, what was found beneath Billy’s fingernails.”

The Chief nods again and swallows hard. He knew this was coming. “Skin fragments,” he says. “The coroner scraped skin fragments from under the boy’s fingernails. DNA testing established that Hector Monteros was the source. The boy fought. He fought for his life.”

At least half of the jurors shift in their seats, look away from the Chief, away from me too. Their faces are closed; they don’t want to hear any more.

I look over at Harry. He runs four fingers across his neck as if decapitating himself. He’s telling me: You’re done. Sit down. Shut up.

But I can’t. Not yet. I have one final, burning point to hammer home.

“When Billy Hammond disappeared, Chief, did your office open a file?”

He takes another drink of water and his eyes open wide. He seems surprised by the question. “Of course.”

“An accordion pocket with manila folders inside, a place to file reports, record telephone numbers, organize correspondence?”

“That’s right.”

“A file you planned to use throughout the investigation?”

“Yes.”

“A file you’d need to consult until the investigation ended, is that right?”

“Well, of course.”

“What’s the current status of that file?”

The Chief stares at me for a moment, a glimmer of understanding in his eyes. Then he turns to the panel and looks slowly at each person. “It’s closed.”

The conference room looks like a paper recycling center gone amok. Documents, manila folders, and legal pads litter the table, chairs, and floor. A half dozen courthouse-generated printouts hang from the ceiling-high bookcases, thumbtacked at eye level. They’re rap sheets, a couple of them long enough to touch the floor.

The Kydd sits in the midst of it all, jacket and tie gone, sleeves of his wrinkled shirt rolled up to his elbows. He’s traded his contacts for an old pair of horn-rimmed glasses. He’s immersed in a file, leaning into the single arc of soft light thrown across the table by an old brass lamp. He doesn’t look up-doesn’t seem to notice-when I join him.

“A little light reading, Kydd?”

He lifts his eyes from the page and blinks, then points with his file toward the printouts. “Any of these guys…,” he says, shaking his head and tossing his glasses on the table. “Any one of them could’ve done Howard Davis. They all had trouble with him. And they’re all up to the job.”

I sink into one of the old upholstered chairs, and the Kydd leans back in his. “I took a look at the crime scene photos,” he says, “then decided to start with the most recent releases.”

That makes sense. Whoever murdered Howard Davis was enraged. If it was one of his parolees, it was almost certainly a recent release. Not someone who wasted much time planning; not someone who weighed the pros and cons in any detail.

“Howard Davis got six new assignments during the past four weeks.”

I rest my head against the chair’s soft spine and look toward the rap sheets. “Anybody interesting?”

The Kydd leans forward and points to one of the shorter printouts. I recognize the intensity in his eyes. He’s on to something.

“Yep,” he says. “Frank Sebastian. He’s pretty interesting. Out three weeks and already hauled in once for violating parole. Nothing big-just failed to check in with Howard Davis when he was supposed to. He got off with a warning.”

The Kydd stares at the floor, elbows on his knees, then looks up at me. “He screwed up again, though-big this time. Knocked over a gas station with two other thugs late Sunday night. One of the conditions of parole was that Sebastian refrain from enjoying the company of these particular gentlemen. The surveillance camera got good shots of all three of them. The station owner fingered them, too, in a photo lineup on Monday.”

I sit up straight and the Kydd nods at me. “Revocation hearing scheduled next week, first thing Tuesday. Old Frank’s going back to the Big House right now, for parole violation. No need to wait for the armed robbery trial.”

The Kydd straightens up and runs his hands through his hair. “Trouble is, he hasn’t been picked up yet. He’s running.”

A low whistle sails into the room. Harry fills the doorway. “You’re good, Kydd,” he says, throwing his jacket and briefcase on top of the cluttered table. “You’re damn good.”

The Kydd grins. “Damn good” is the highest praise Harry doles out.

“Anything from the lab?” Harry crosses the room and drops into the chair next to mine, loosening his tie.