“The photographer’s name,” Fields said.

“Can we magnify it somehow, get a look at it?”

“I’m ahead of you, Mr. Kenzie.”

We turned and looked at him.

“Diandra Warren took that photograph.”

She looked like death.

Her skin was the color of white formica and the clothes hanging to her skeletal frame were beseiged by wrinkles.

“Tell me about the Edward Everett Protection Association, Diandra. Please,” I said.

“The what?” She stared at me with bleary eyes. As she stood before me, I felt I was looking at someone I’d known in youth but hadn’t seen in several decades, only to discover that time had not only worn her down, but had laid waste to her without mercy.

I placed the photograph on the bar in front of her.

“Your husband, my father, Jack Rouse, Emma Hurlihy, Diedre Rider.”

“That was fifteen or twenty years ago,” she said.

“Twenty,” Bolton said.

“Why didn’t you recognize my name?” I said. “You knew my father.”

She cocked her head, looked at me as if I’d just claimed she was a long-lost sister.

“I never knew your father, Mr. Kenzie.”

I pointed at the photo. “There he is, Doctor Warren. Standing a foot away from your husband.”

“That’s your father?” She stared at the photo.

“Yes. And that’s Jack Rouse beside him. And just over his left shoulder, that’s Kevin Hurlihy’s mother.”

“I didn’t…” She peered at the faces. “I didn’t know these people by name, Mr. Kenzie. I took this photo because Stan asked me to. This silly group was something he was involved with, not me. I wouldn’t even allow them to have meetings at our house.”

“Why not?” Devin said.

She sighed and waved a frail hand. “All that macho posturing under the guise of community service. It was so ridiculous. Stan would try to convince me how good it would look on his résumé, but he was no different than the rest, forming a street gang and calling it socially benevolent.”

Bolton said, “Our records indicate that you filed for separation from Mr. Timpson in November of nineteen seventy-four. Why?”

She shrugged and yawned into her fist.

“Doctor Warren?”

“Jesus Christ,” she said sharply. “Jesus Christ.” She looked up at us and for a moment life returned to her, and then just as suddenly dissipated. She dropped her head into her hands and limp strands of hair fell over her fingers.

“Stanley,” she said, “showed his true colors that summer. He was a Roman basically, convinced of his own moral superiority. He’d come home with blood on his shoe from kicking some unlucky car thief and try to tell me it was about justice. He became ugly…sexually, as if I were no longer his wife but his purchased courtesan. He changed from an essentially decent man with some unanswered questions about his manhood into a storm trooper.” She stabbed her finger into the photo. “And it was this group that caused it. This ridiculous, silly group of fools.”

“Was there any one particular incident that you can recall, Doctor Warren?”