CHARLIE SGARZI APPEARED TO HAVE ORGANIZED a candlelight vigil. A crowd of maybe 100 or 150 people had gathered outside the main building of the MCI, bearing poster-size photos of the three murder victims, including Charlie’s mother, beneath the glare of the prison’s perimeter lights.

When Phil pulled in, the crowd was singing “Amazing Grace,” while a line of heavily padded corrections officers stood between them and the facility. When Charlie Sgarzi spotted Phil and D.D. getting out of the vehicle, he grabbed the bullhorn and started a chant of “Justice, justice, justice!”

Phil sighed heavily. D.D. didn’t blame him. Moments like this, policing wasn’t fun. Taking on violent offenders, good. Confronting grieving loved ones . . . not so much so.

She let him take the lead. Finally, her injured shoulder was useful for something.

Adeline brought up the rear. What the doctor thought of this circus, D.D. could only guess.

“Charles,” Phil said, greeting the reporter.

“Did you come here to arrest Shana Day?” the reporter demanded. His eyes appeared bloodshot, almost glazed over, as if he’d been drinking.

“Would you like to talk about that?” Phil suggested graciously. He’d always been good at this.

“Damn right!”

“All right, let’s take a quick walk. Get on the same page.”

“No.”

“No?”

“You got something to say, tell it to all of us. Have you met Christine Ryan’s parents? Or Regina Barnes’s grandparents? Their families, neighbors, friends. We all deserve answers. We all demand justice.”

“Shit,” D.D. muttered. She just couldn’t help herself.

Charlie’s gaze swung wildly to her. “What’d you just say? What? What?”

“Hey, Charlie,” she said, all done with diplomacy. “Hear you got some letters Shana wrote to your cousin. We got a search warrant for them in the car.” Small lie, but effective. “Now, hand them over.”

Charlie lowered the bullhorn. He regarded her blearily. “Huh?”

“The letters, Charlie. The letters you claim Shana wrote thirty years ago to your cousin. We want them. Now.”

He swayed on his feet.

“There aren’t any letters, are there, Charlie?”

“This isn’t the time—”

“Search warrant.”

“But—”

“Search warrant.”

He glared at her.

“Let’s take that walk, all right, Charlie?” Phil interjected soothingly. “We’re here to help. So come on, let’s have a chat and figure things out.”

Charlie handed over his bullhorn to a bystander.

He fell in step with them, his gaze not totally focused. Up close, D.D. couldn’t detect any smell of alcohol. So maybe he wasn’t drunk after all. Just completely emotionally devastated.

Phil waited till they were fifty yards from the madness. “Why didn’t you tell us about the letters, Charlie?” he asked. “You claim to want justice, but you’re the one holding back.”

“I need them,” Charlie mumbled, not making eye contact. “For my book. Gotta have original material. You know. Exclusive content.”