“Third pedophile, you mean,” Phil muttered.
D.D. was more circumspect. “Two homicides performed by the same shooter? Are you sure? Do you have a witness telling you he or she absolutely saw the same person here and there? Do you have a report from ballistics stating the slugs recovered from this crime scene absolutely positively match the slugs recovered from the Antiholde crime scene?”
Neil shook his head.
“Well then,” D.D. declared briskly. “Let’s not get ahead of ourselves. I wouldn’t want to panic the good citizens of Boston unnecessarily. And…maybe I wouldn’t want to encourage the city’s pervert population to practice undo caution either.”
Neil’s eyes rounded slightly. He got the implication of D.D.’s decision, glancing quickly at Phil, whose face was just as stony as D.D.’s.
“Wow,” Neil murmured. “And I wondered if motherhood would make her soft…”
His voice trailed off. At the last minute, the youngest member of the squad seemed to realize he probably should’ve kept that thought to himself.
But D.D. just clapped him on the back. “Missed you, too,” she informed him, cheerfully. “Now then. Nothing personal, but I gotta be home by five, which gives us,” she glanced at her watch. “About six more hours to catch a killer. Let’s do it.”
Chapter 3
HOURS LATER, D.D. finished overseeing the processing of the murder scene. She’d long stopped registering the ammonia-like scent of urine, let alone the rank odor of puppy poo. Instead, she clambered back down the stairs of the tenement building and out the front doors contemplating many thoughts at once: She should get home soon, she should contact the lead investigator from the first shooting, she should order a rush on the ballistics test from this shooting to compare with the previous shooting. What were the odds of her boss, Cal Horgan, letting her have an extra body to help view all the video footage? Or maybe she’d just have to do that herself. Phil, after all, would need days to pour through all the computer data. Neil would probably soon be in a state of depression going through all those photos, the kind of work D.D. and Phil had done before and would probably do again, but not any sooner than they had to. Didn’t matter how objective and analytic you made yourself, photos of kids hurt. So adding to her mental list, check on Neil, see how he was coping with his assignment; did he require any mental health resources, or even a therapeutic night out over beers? Sergeants managed their people as much as their cases, and D.D. prided herself on both.
She cleared the building steps and hit fresh air, inhaling several deep breaths. No flash of media cameras awaited her; a shooting in a Boston tenement hardly rated coverage. Of course, once the media caught wind of what they’d found in the vic’s photo boxes and, not being dumb bunnies, connected this incident with another shooting four weeks prior…
But for now, all was quiet, and D.D. was gonna enjoy it while she could.
She pushed through the last of the gawkers, most of them looking bored, an actual murder investigation not being nearly as exciting as what they’d seen on TV. D.D. buried her hands in her pockets, ducked her head against the biting January chill, and headed down the block to her car.
Fifty yards away, she spotted it. White, like a blot of snow, at the bottom of her windshield. Except when the wind caught it, it started flapping, and she realized it was half a piece of paper, shoved under the left wiper.
Maybe an advertisement or flier. She didn’t pick up her pace, just kept walking, huddling inside her BPD field coat for warmth.