By 1:45 AM, the media contingent on the avenue had grown to a full-blown flood. It was as if Cecil B. Moore—the civil-rights activist for whom the street was named—had lit the asphalt like one of his trademark cigars and watched it grow bright with life.

Police barricaded the avenue and Sixteenth Street, cutting off access to the church. Though two bus lines were detoured as a result, there was no traffic to speak of at that time of morning, but curious neighbors and aggressive reporters made up for the lack of cars.

Photographers from local papers held cameras and camcorders aloft. TV reporters did stand-ups for CNN via satellite. They all wanted to catch a glimpse of the dead man who’d declared himself the angel of death, and they wanted to know if the rumors were true. Could there possibly be more than one of them?

In the hours since the killing had begun, nearly everyone in Philadelphia had heard at least part of the truth. A man who’d declared that he was from heaven had killed six people before making his way to hell. But no one was sure if he’d acted alone, and if the police had any chance of catching his accomplices off guard, they had to make sure it stayed that way.

Commissioner Lynch knew that. It was the reason he’d avoided the press on Fairmount Avenue, and it was the reason he’d avoid them now.

Pulling up in a vacant lot adjacent to the church, Lynch and Smithson walked quickly to the side entrance and made their way upstairs. In minutes, they were standing at the edge of the crime scene that police had been poring over since the discovery of the body.

“We were able to get in touch with the pastor and several trustees from the church,” Mann told the commissioner as he walked in. “They arrived a few minutes ago. They’ve offered to help in any way they can.”

“Good,” Lynch said. “They can pray that we find the others before somebody else dies. Where’s Coletti?”

Mann pointed to the front of the church. Coletti was wearing latex gloves and examining the body along with two officers from the crime scene unit. Lynch and Smithson walked up to him.

“So this was one of them,” Lynch said, looking at the dead man seated in the chair.

“He looks like a kid.”

“He was a kid,” Coletti said, reading an old high school ID he’d found in the dead man’s wallet. “Says here his name was Phillip Little, from Fargo, North Dakota.” He pulled out his driver’s license. “Looks like he was living in a second-floor apartment about a block from here.”

“Okay, we’ll have north detectives see if they can get in touch with the landlord so we can get in,” Lynch said. “How old was Mr. Little?”

“He was twenty-five.”

“That’s a problem,” said Smithson.