“Who was the first person to open those e-mails?” I asked the room.

“That’d be me.” A scruffy college-aged kid raised his hand. His T-shirt said PEACE, JUSTICE, AND BEER. “I’m Brent Forster,” he added.

“Brent, meet Agent Patel. She’s your new best friend,” I said. “She’s going to take a look at your computer. Right now.” I’d worked with Patel enough to know she could hold down this end on her own.

“And, Ms. Brophy?” I said, holding the door open to the hall. “Could we talk outside, please?”

She got up then, begrudgingly enough, and took a pack of smokes off her desk. I followed her down to the end of the hall, where she opened a window and lit up.

“If we can make this quick, I’ve really got a full plate today,” she said.

“No doubt,” I told her. “But now that you have your scoop, I’m going to need some cooperation on this. This is a murder case.”

“Of course,” she said, as if she hadn’t made us feel about as welcome as an outbreak of herpes so far. A lot of homeless people — and by extension their advocates — tend to see the police as more obstacle than ally. I got that but thought, Tough.

“There’s not much to tell,” she offered. “We got the e-mails a few hours ago. Assuming they’re not from this Wexler kid, I have no idea who sent them.”

“Understood,” I said, “but whoever it was, they just did your paper a huge favor, wouldn’t you say? I wonder if there might be some connection you can help us with?”

“They’ve also got a pretty good point to make, wouldn’t you say?”

She reminded me of my FBI friend Ned Mahoney, with the rapid-fire speech and hyperactive hands. I’d never seen anyone smoke so fast either. Not Ned — Brophy.

“I hope you’re not going to turn these guys into some kind of heroes,” I told her.

“Give me a little credit,” she said. “I’ve got a master’s from Columbia Journalism. Besides, they don’t need us to turn them into anything. They’re already famous, and they’re already heroes — with anyone who has the guts to admit it.”

My pulse took a step up. “I’m surprised to hear you talk this way. Four people are dead. These punks aren’t any heroes.”

“Do you know how many people die of exposure on the streets every year?” she said. “Or because they can’t afford prescription meds, much less a trip to the doctor? These victims of yours could have made a lot of other people’s lives better instead of worse, Detective, but they didn’t. They looked out for themselves, period. I’m no fan of vigilante justice, but I do like poetry — and this is just a little bit poetic, don’t you think?”