“Way harder,” Phil said immediately. “Dead people…worst has already happened. These kids…”
Neil shrugged again. “Somebody’s gotta do it, right? Better me than you.”
Phil nodded slowly. “I think he’s growing up nicely,” he told D.D.
“Obviously we’ve raised him right,” she concurred.
Neil rolled his eyes at both of them. “Since it’s my first time through, any advice?”
“Don’t just look at the people,” D.D. informed him. “Cross-referencing the victims is step one, but you also want to examine the backgrounds of each photo—look for patterns in curtains, carpets, bedding. Sometimes, it’s not the who that matches, it’s the where. Either one gives us a link between our dead pervs. When you’re done, we’ll send the photos to the National Center for Missing and Exploited Children, where they have trained experts who will do the same thing all over again, except comparing them against a national database. They also have some facial recognition software, which helps them get the job done.”
Neil looked at her.
“We gotta get you to the National Academy,” she informed her younger partner, as she did at least once every six months. The National Academy was a ten-week course in advanced police training offered at Quantico, considered de rigueur for any up and coming cop. When D.D. had attended, she’d spent an entire day with the folks at the National Center for Missing and Exploited Children, which not only helped her understand the resources they had to offer for local law enforcement agencies such as the BPD, but also made her grateful she was a city detective and not a criminologist swimming against the tide to rescue sexually abused children.
She stared at Neil now. He looked away, as he did every time the subject of the National Academy came up.
“Perpetrator’s right-handed,” he mumbled, changing the subject. “Given the angle of the gunshot.”
“Doesn’t limit our suspect pool that much,” D.D. retorted with a shrug.
“Daytime shootings,” Neil offered next.
“How do you figure?”
“Because in both neighborhoods, nobody would open their doors after dark.”
“But no witnesses,” D.D. pushed back.
“Because in both neighborhoods,” Neil repeated, “people are trained not to see anything. And they certainly aren’t gonna tell us about it if they do.”
“True.” D.D. turned to Phil. “While Neil handles the photos, I need you to oversee both victims’ computers. Pedophiles are networkers. They visit chat rooms, post blogs, seek out others like themselves. Even if our two victims never met each other in person, doesn’t mean they haven’t crossed paths online. Find that common denominator, and maybe we can get some traction.”
“The Antiholde computer has already been processed,” Phil informed her. “Meaning we just gotta dissect this one, and I’m ready to rock and roll.”
“We’ll pull local video,” D.D. mused out loud, referring to the various video cameras that dotted any Boston city block, whether owned by the city or an area business, or even in some cases by a concerned citizen trying to protect him-or herself against crime. “You never know, maybe we can find footage of a sixteen-to twenty-five-year-old white male in a black winter coat with a navy blue knit hat.”
Phil and Neil smiled at that, but D.D. wagged her finger at them. “Seriously! Forget the wardrobe and age range. Think white kid. How many of them do you see outside? In this neighborhood, Caucasians stand out. Let’s use that to our advantage.”
“Gonna get the media involved?” Phil wanted to know.
She had to think about it. “Maybe, if we can get a better profile of the shooter. Until then, I don’t see the point.”
Neil seemed surprised. “But there have been two shootings, second one already half a week old. Meaning, maybe even now, we got a perpetrator out there, targeting a third victim.”