I shrugged. “That was the story back then.”

“Well, he wasn’t stabbed. That was just what we told the media. He was crucified. And it wasn’t a black guy did it. We found red hair and blond hair and brown hair in Cal Morrison’s clothing, but no black. And Alec Hardiman and a friend of his, Charles Rugglestone, had been seen in the neighborhood earlier that night, and we were already on edge about the other killings, so until we busted someone, we didn’t mind the black guy story circulating for a while.” He shrugged. “Not like too many black guys were going to stumble into this neighborhood back then, so it seemed a safe cover for a while.”

“Gerry,” I said, “what other killings?”

The bar door opened, the heavy wood banging against the brick exterior and we both looked at a man with spiky hair and a nose ring and a torn T-shirt hanging untucked over fashionably eviscerated jeans.

“Closed,” Gerry said.

“Just a wee spot to warm me stumuch on a lonely night,” the guy said in a horrendously fake brogue.

Gerry came off the cooler and walked around the bar. “You even know where you are, son?”

Underneath my hand, Patton’s muscles tightened and he raised his head, stared at the kid.

The kid took a step forward. “Just a wee spot of whiskey.” He giggled into his hand, blinked into the light and his face was swollen with booze and God knows what else.

“Kenmore Square is that way,” Gerry said and pointed back out the door.

“Don’t want Kenmore Square,” the guy said. He swayed slightly from side to side as he fumbled in his waistband for his cigarettes.

“Son,” Gerry said, “it’s time for you to be moving on.”

Gerry put his arm on the guy’s shoulder and for a moment the guy looked ready to shrug it off, but then he looked at me and then Patton and then down at Gerry. Gerry’s demeanor was kind and warm, and he was four inches shorter, but even this guy, drunk as he was, sensed how quickly that kindness could disappear if he pushed it.

“Just wanted a drink,” he mumbled.

“I know,” Gerry said. “But I can’t give you one. You got cab fare? Where you live?”

“I just wanted a drink,” the guy repeated. He looked up at me and tears leaked down his cheeks and the damp cigarette hung flacid between his lips. “I just…”

“Where you live?” Gerry asked again.

“Huh? Lower Mills.” The guy sniffled.

“You can walk around Lower Mills dressed like that without getting your ass kicked?” Gerry smiled. “Place must have changed a lot in ten years.”

“Lower Mills,” the guy sobbed.

“Son,” Gerry said, “ssshh. It’s okay. It’s all right. You go out this door, you take a right, there’s a cab half a block up. Cabbie’s name is Achal and he’s there till three on the dot. You tell him to take you to Lower Mills.”