Hawkins pushed the downstairs buzzer, and when he opened the door Luria and Dworkin were coming down the hall. Little Dworkin was still out of breath from climbing the stairs. “Is it true?” Dworkin gasped. “Yes,” Hawkins said. In the background they heard Rachel crying. Luria raised his hand silently and he grabbed the collar of his shirt and tore it. The ripping sound filled the hall and Dworkin wailed and Hawkins heard doors open downstairs. Then Dworkin tore his shirt, which was almost funny—two old men standing there with old-­fashioned ribbed undershirts showing through torn shirts. Then Dworkin wailed something that sounded like “Aunt Sophie . . . Auuuuuunnnttt Soooophieee.” It was a shocking sound and, without warning, Luria slapped Dworkin’s face. Luria swung again and Hawkins grabbed Luria’s torn collar and shoved him hard against the wall; he lifted his fist high over their heads, but Luria didn’t flinch. Dworkin pulled at Hawkins’s arm, mumbling, “Please, please, Roger. He did right. I shouldn’t talk like that. Please.” Luria waited; Dworkin kept mumbling, and the phone rang in the apartment.

Hawkins lowered his fist and let Luria go. “Answer the phone,” Luria said softly. Hawkins backed away, watching Luria. “The phone,” Luria said again.

It was Ableson this time, calling to tell Hawkins that they’d gotten a tip and picked up five kids for killing Adam.

The kids were members of a gang called the Eagles. They met in the basement of the Lensky house on President Street. Hawkins made Baer stop in front of the clubhouse. The bank of ivy that was once Mrs. Lensky’s pride was dying. The glass in the front door was dirty, there was litter in the basement entryway, and he knew the Lenskys were dead or moved away. Some time ago, too, from the extent of the neglect. The stairs down to the basement were cracked and someone had spray-­painted “Fuck you” on the stone wall.

“Fuck you, too,” Hawkins whispered.

The clubhouse had one window in front; on it gold decal letters spelled out “Eagles.” Under that someone had painted a child’s-­nightmare eagle with huge claws and a tearing beak. At first the eagle looked ugly and cruel; it fed Hawkins’s rage. Then he saw that the artist had painted each feather with ribs and outlined the talons on the claws. The painting was painstaking, almost loving, and against his will he felt something like pity for the artist. He couldn’t help asking himself why they’d done it. Why five kids who met here to get away from packed apartments, family fights, squalling babies, and the constant pressure of being poor, came out of this little haven and stabbed Adam to death for thirty dollars.