He resisted the temptation to close Jimmy’s eyes for him.

St. Swithin’s Home for Boys was housed in a shabby, four-story building that had seen better days. If anything, it seemed even more rundown than Blake remembered. Getting out of his car, he gazed up at the home’s crumbling façade. Memories, both good and bad, flooded over him. He shook his head to clear his mind before heading inside. He was off the clock now, having ditched his partner back at the station.

This was something he wanted to do on his own.

He found Father Reilly in the same cluttered office the old priest had occupied for years. Like the building, Reilly was showing his age. He was a hefty, broadfaced Irishman, whose receding white hair had all but surrendered to baldness. Orphaned and abandoned children, ranging in age from toddlers to teens, roamed the halls outside the office, jostling and joking with one another. Shrill laughter was interspersed with the occasional noisy squabble. Second-hand clothing had been passed down from one generation of orphans to another. Curious eyes peered in the doorway.

Reilly closed the door to cut down on the hubbub and give the two men a degree of privacy.

“Jimmy hadn’t been here for months,” the priest said.

Blake scribbled in his notepad. “Why?”

“You know why, Blake. He aged out. We don’t have the resources to keep on boys after sixteen.” The cop gave Reilly a puzzled look.

“The Wayne Foundation gives money for that.”

Reilly shook his head.

“Not for two years now.”

I hadn’t heard that, Blake thought. He was disturbed by the news, but had more pressing matters to deal with at the moment. “He has a brother here, right?” Reilly nodded sadly.

“Mark. I’ll tell him.”

“I’d like to, if that’s okay.”

After wrapping things up with Father Reilly, and promising to visit again soon, Blake located Mark out in the playground. Jimmy’s little brother was only ten years old, but he took the news of his brother’s death with the shut-down, stony-faced resignation of someone who had already stopped expecting life to be fair.

He bit down on his lip, refusing to cry.

“I’m sorry,” Blake said. The words felt completely inadequate.

Mark just nodded and stared at the ground.

“What was he doing in tunnels?” the cop asked.

“Lots of guys been going down the tunnels when they age out,” the boy said flatly. “Say you can live down there. Say there’s work down there.”

Blake scratched his head.

“What kinds of work you gonna find in the sewers?”

“More than you can find up here, I guess.”

Blake didn’t like the sound of that. Whatever Jimmy had been doing in the sewers, it obviously hadn’t turned out well for him.

And Blake wanted to know why.

CHAPTER SIX

The bar was a real dive, like so many others in this part of Gotham. A jukebox blared in the background, competing with harsh laughter and dirty jokes. Ceiling fans fought a losing battle against the smoky haze, which reeked of tobacco and other controlled substances. Tough-looking ex-cons, hoodlums, and bikers played pool and quarreled over darts. A worn-out waitress, old beyond her years, dodged grabby hands. Cigarette butts and peanut shells littered the floor.