He called Levy again, but now the line was busy. Why had the boy cried? Because Adam had a father? Or because his wife was pregnant? Hawkins looked closely at the picture. He had been a handsome kid, trying to grow a mustache. He looked again at the clock. It was twelve-ten. He put on his jacket, told Betty, his secretary, she could get him on the car phone in an emergency but that he was going to a funeral and didn’t want to be disturbed.

The church was yellow brick, big and ugly, and looked like it was meant to house a swimming pool. It was in a section of factories and gas stations mixed with asphalt-­sided houses built to fit odd-­shaped lots. A few trees came up through holes cut in cement. The murders made page one in the Post and News, and TV cameras waited at the foot of the church steps to catch the glistening of tears on the mothers’ faces, or even better, on the fathers’.

Hawkins put on the plain sunglasses he kept in the glove compartment; he couldn’t see too well with them, but it was a disguise of sorts. He kept to the side of the steps as he eased his way through the crowd and into the church. The families were in the front; the women were mostly overweight and pretty and they sat together in the first row, weeping and rocking. The men were in the second row. They wore shiny dark jackets with tight shoulders and sleeves that were too short. Hawkins stooped at the end of the row. One man saw him and nudged another, then another, until they were all staring at him. The looks were hostile, and he wondered weakly if it was because he was black or because he was a cop. He also wondered if they’d feel better if they knew how bad his head hurt. He smiled at them, but none of them smiled back and he went to the back of the church and stood to the side, while the priest went through the service for the dead.