Coletti leaned forward and read from the report in front of him. “A white male, armed with a shotgun, entered the Mt. Pisgah Baptist Church on Darby Road, at 2:00 PM on December 30, 2005. He shot the victim, twenty-two-year-old Harley Thompson, in the chest. At 3:00 PM, David Atwell was apprehended three blocks from the scene. The murder weapon was found on a nearby rooftop. Atwell subsequently confessed to involuntary manslaughter.”

The blood drained from Coletti’s face.

“Did you know these people?” Smithson asked.

He nodded. “I arrested David Atwell about a year before that. I caught him with a gun that was used in a murder in Northeast Philly. He got off on a technicality. Prosecutorial misconduct. If I remember correctly, Harley Thompson’s family blamed us for getting him killed. They said we let a murderer walk.”

“Did you help with the investigation in Darby?” Smithson asked. “I didn’t see your name anywhere in the records.”

“That’s because there wasn’t much of an investigation. Everybody in Darby knew Atwell was a meth dealer, and Thompson was the preacher’s strung-out nephew. The theory was that a drug deal went bad and Atwell caught Thompson in his uncle’s storefront church and shot him. The only thing Darby wanted me to do was testify about Atwell’s prior arrest. I told them I would.”

“So did you?” Mann asked.

“They didn’t need me. Atwell gave up his meth suppliers and the Darby DA let him plead to involuntary manslaughter. Funny thing about it was, Atwell always insisted he didn’t kill Thompson. Even after he copped his plea, he swore he’d been set up.”

“So where’s Atwell now?” Mann asked. “We’re gonna need to talk to him.”

“I don’t think that’s gonna be possible,” Coletti said. “Atwell was beaten to death in Graterford about a month into his sentence. His suppliers didn’t appreciate the information he shared about them.”

They fell silent as they reflected on the apparent dead end. After a few moments, Smithson spoke up.

“You mentioned Harley Thompson’s family being angry with you over his death,” she said. “Do you remember anyone specifically who might have taken that anger a step further?”

“No. I just remember that he had a few uncles who were involved with the church. I never met them or talked to them, but they sent a bunch of letters to homicide complaining about our handling of that first gun arrest. Nothing ever came of it.”

“I’ll follow up and see if any of them fit the profile,” Smithson said quickly.

Coletti didn’t respond. He just sat there, staring into space as if he could see into the past. Smithson stopped and watched him. Mann did too. Coletti didn’t look up. Rather, he looked inside himself.