Pace sat silent for a moment. Then he said, “All right. It was fucked. No other word for it. Fucked and fucked. Two murders in daylight, and they can’t get the guy. Really? What would you call it? It was fucked.”

Cipriani leaned toward Eden. “I’m not sure you understood all that technical lingo, but if I understand Bob, I think what he’s trying to say is that it was fucked.”

Eden smiled and turned to Pace. “I was told the DA didn’t believe he had sufficient evidence.”

Pace shrugged. “What I heard…somebody screwed up. I don’t know if it was you guys or somebody else.”

“If Bob was involved, he’d have caught the guy.” Cipriani raised a fist. “Nailed the bastard by his cojones. Wouldn’t you, Bob?”

“I don’t see how I could have done worse. I mean, no offense, but it’s not like you Violent Crime guys—sorry, and gals—aren’t paid enough. You’re not on shifts. Your cars are paid for. You’re not doing domestic calls on Saturday night, keeping the assholes from beating each other’s brains out, drunks puking on your shoes.”

“Not to mention the bad stuff,” Cipriani said.

“And I’m not saying this myself. But I’ve heard other offices say your boss, Lieutenant Mahler, is a bit of a head case. Hasn’t been right since the murders.”

Cipriani’s face reddened. “Gee, Bob. Why don’t you tell us what you really think?”

“I just said that’s not me. It’s what I heard.”

“A head case?” Eden asked. It was odd to hear what other officers thought of her boss.

Pace pulled his laptop back in front of him. “I’ve already said too much.” Then he looked back at Eden. “You have kids? It’s different if you have kids. A murder like this makes you worry about them. I have two girls, and believe me, you can’t help thinking it could be them. Anyway, you asked me, I told you. I’m not the only one, either. Talk to other uniforms. They’ll tell you. It was fucked.”

Cipriani looked at Eden. “I wasn’t here two years ago, so I can’t speak to it. But this time, right now…you talk to people out there; they’re scared. We better figure this out and find the guy before it happens again.”

(ii)

(TUESDAY, 5:12 P.M.)

Mahler leaned his back against the wall of the VCI room. He had spent the past hour in his office replaying his answers at the press conference. Checking his phone, he saw that the website of the Press Democrat, the local paper, already had a story on his walking out. The investigation was barely under way, and in the absence of any news, he was again becoming the story. “Do we know who our Jane Doe is?” he asked.