Lynch’s cell phone vibrated in his pocket. While the commissioner took the call, Mann tapped Coletti on the arm and handed him an iPhone.

“I picked this up for you,” he said with a grin. “I might need to reach you.”

Coletti nodded and put the phone in his pocket just as Lynch disconnected his call.

“The medical examiner’s office is sending over the autopsy results,” the commissioner said with a grim expression. “We’re going to need to prepare a statement, because if I know the medical examiner’s office, the press is going to have that report before we do.”

The young man sat on a cold metal bunk in the eight-foot cell, his eyes shifting from the bars to the rust-stained toilet. His neck was sore from the nightstick, and his nerves were frayed from the ordeal. His stomach churned from the jailhouse cheese sandwich, and he knew that his whole body would soon quake with heroin withdrawal.

“Yo,” the cop in charge of the prisoners said as he unlocked the door to his cell.

“You got people here to see you.”

The young man was confused. He had no family in Philadelphia, and his only real friend was his dog. He hesitantly got up from the metal bunk and ventured slowly out of the cell.

“Hurry up!” the cop said, grabbing his arm and pushing him into the hall. “We ain’t got all day.”

He looked up and saw Detective Coletti standing a few feet away, waiting for him. The other prisoners watched curiously as he walked down the hall with the detective, knowing that he’d be asked for information and most likely would provide it.

As they reached the end of the hallway and walked through a heavy steel door, the cop pushed him into a room where Sandy Jackson was waiting. They cuffed him and took him down a hall and into a plain white cinderblock room with a clock and a fluorescent light.

“Sit down,” Coletti said, pushing him toward a table and chairs in the middle of the room.

The man sat down while warily watching Sandy as if he were waiting for her to choke him again.

“I’m not here to hurt you,” she said as she reached down to unlock his handcuffs. “At least, not yet.”

Sandy sat on the edge of a metal table at the other end of the small room as Coletti sat down in a chair across from the suspect. He crossed his legs and pulled a pack of Marlboros from his pocket. “Smoke?” he asked, holding out the cigarettes like a lifeline.

The man looked around like a nervous rodent, unsure of what to do. Finally, he took the cigarette with shaking hands and held it up to his lips. Coletti leaned over and lit it for the man, who greedily sucked down the smoke.