The sub-aqua team had found a fishing boat that had been at the bottom of the harbor for a long time, and they made it clear that that was the most interesting thing they were expecting to find. They were faceless and sleek in their dive suits, turning the harbor military and sinister. We thanked them, shook their slick gloved hands and told them to go home. The searchers, who had been working their way across the estate, were dirty, tired and pissed off: they had found eight knives of varying shapes and sizes, all of which had clearly been planted overnight by teenagers who thought they were hilarious geniuses sticking it to the man, and all of which would have to be checked out. I told the team to move the search up to the hill where Conor had hidden his car. According to his story, the weapons had gone into the water, but Richie was right about this much: Conor was playing games with us. Until we knew exactly what games and why, everything he said needed checking.

A rangy guy with blond dreadlocks and a dusty parka was sitting on the Spains’ garden wall, smoking a rollie and looking dodgy. I said, “Can we help you?”

“Howya,” he said, mashing out his smoke on the sole of his shoe. “Detectives, yeah? Tom. Larry said you wanted me to hang on for you.”

What with lab coats and crime-scene overalls and not dealing with the public, the Bureau has lower sartorial standards than we do, but this guy was still something special. I said, “Detective Kennedy and Detective Curran. You’re here about the animal in the attic?”

“Yeah. Want to come inside, see what’s up?”

He looked like he was stoned off his tits, but Larry is ferociously picky about who he works with, so I tried not to write the kid off yet. “Let’s do that,” I said. “Your boys found a dead robin in the back garden. Did you take a look?”

Tom stashed his cigarette butt in his tobacco pouch, ducked under the tape and shambled up the drive. “Yeah, sure, but not a lot there to see. Lar said you wanted to know was it an animal kill or a human one, but all the insect activity wrecked the wound. All I can tell you is it was kind of ragged, yeah? Like, it wasn’t done by a sharp blade. It could’ve been a serrated blade, probably a dull one, or it could’ve been teeth. No way to tell.”

Richie said, “What kind of teeth?”

Tom grinned. “Not human. What, you were thinking your guy was, like, Ozzy?”

Richie grinned back. “Right. Happy Halloween, I’m too old for bats, here’s a robin.”

“That’s so fucked up,” Tom said cheerfully. Someone had mended the Spains’ door—roughly, with a few screws and a padlock—to keep out ghouls and journalists; he dug into his pocket for the key. “Nah. Animal teeth. We could be looking at a rat, or a fox, except both of those would’ve probably eaten the guts and stuff, not just the head. If it was an animal, I’m gonna say probably a mustelid. Like stoats and mink, right? One of that family. They’re into surplus killing.”