Marcus did not answer that question. There had been no face in the conventional sense. A young boy like that, Shindler thought. Someone would pay.

“I figure one stabbed him, or kept him at bay, then the other one hit him from behind. Probably with the same thing they used to cave in the car window.”

“A tire iron?”

“It could have been.”

They walked around the rear of the car. All around them policemen scurried with cameras and tape measures. Plastic bags and note pads.

“The ground about twenty feet from here shows scuff marks and there is some blood on a rock that wasn’t washed away by the rain last night.”

Shindler thought about what it would be like to carry the body, still warm, twenty feet to the car and then to stuff it into the front seat. He shuddered involuntarily. He could never have done it.

“Why do you think they moved him?”

“Concealment. Give them more time before it was discovered.”

A young patrolman holding a plastic bag was casting nervous glances at the corpse. The bag was resting on the hood of the Mercury.

“That been dusted?” Marcus asked sharply.

The policeman looked up, startled, snapping his eyes away from the corpse.

“Yes, sir.”

“What’s in the bag?”

“Some of the objects we found in the car.”

Marcus opened the top of the bag and peered into it. His eyes stopped on the purse.

“Where did you find that?”

“It was on the floor under the front seat. We found a woman’s coat in the back seat.”

Marcus started to say something when he was interrupted by a uniformed officer.

“We have a woman who may have seen something. We’re keeping her over by the cars. Her name is Thelma Pullen and she lives on the border of the park near the Monroe Boulevard entrance.”

Marcus and Shindler followed the officer toward a group of police cars that huddled together on the edge of the meadow. A young officer was writing intently in a notebook when they approached. He was talking to a bony, middle-aged woman whose eyes darted nervously toward the ambulance and the body every few seconds.

“I’m Harvey Marcus and this is Roy Shindler, ma’am. I understand you have some information for us.”

“Yes…I mean I don’t know if it’s anything. I just heard about the…the murder on the radio this morning and I thought it might be of importance.”

She stopped and looked back and forth between Marcus and Shindler, waiting for some word of approval. Marcus gave it to her.

“We appreciate your help. Now what did you see or hear?”

“Well, I live near the entrance to the park. My backyard runs right into the woods at the edge of the park. We used to get a lot of prowlers. Kids mostly.

“John-that’s my husband-he’s a salesman and he’s away a lot. He was worried that someone might break in while he was away. We’ve been burglarized twice already. So he bought two German Shepherd guard dogs.

“Last night, I was sleeping, when the dogs woke me. They were out in the yard. I let them roam out there and they have a large doghouse. They’re on a leash, but it’s pretty long.

“Anyway, I got up and looked outside and I saw a girl running away. It was dark, and she was almost off of the property when I looked, but I’m certain it was a girl and she seemed to be coming out of the woods. At least, she was running from the woods.”

“About what time was this, Mrs. Pullen?” Shindler asked.

“I thought about that and I really don’t know. I didn’t look at a clock, but I did go to bed at midnight, so it must have been after that.”

“Well, thank you, Mrs. Pullen. This officer will take a detailed statement from you and we will be back in touch later. I appreciate your taking the time to come up here. If we had more good citizens like you, our job would be a lot easier.”

The woman blushed and shrugged.

“I just thought it might be important.”

She turned toward the ambulance again.

“The radio said he was…was stabbed?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

She shuddered.

“The park used to be a nice place to live. In the last few years, it’s gotten so bad we’re thinking of moving.”

She shook her head and Shindler and Marcus walked away. Marcus spotted a short, slender man in civilian clothes standing halfway across the meadow. He called out to him. The man looked up and waved and Marcus signaled for him to meet them by Walter’s car.

“Giannini,” Marcus asked when they reached the vehicle, “did you go through the car?”

“First thing,” Giannini answered.

“Did you find anything that suggests that there was a girl with the boy?”

“I’m afraid so.” Giannini glanced at the plastic bag that still sat on the hood. “You’ve seen the purse? There was a woman’s coat in the back seat and I found a button that looks like it came from a woman’s blouse on the front seat. Mort found a piece of broken fingernail with nail polish on it on the floor of the car below the steering wheel.”

Marcus sent Giannini back to the field.

“A girl, too,” Shindler said.

“It makes sense. A good-looking kid like that out here in Lover’s Lane on a Friday night. There would have to be a girl.”

“Then where is she?”

Shindler turned to the young officer who was watching the property bag.

“Has that purse been checked for I.D. yet?”

“Yes, sir. The purse belongs to an Elaine Murray.”

Shindler mulled this over for a moment. Then he ducked his head inside the car and fiddled with the catch on the glove compartment. The metal door flopped down. There were some road maps, a triple A book and a package of Trojans. He remembered that the kid had one in his wallet.

“You don’t think it’s possible that the girl killed him, do you?” Shindler asked.

“It’s possible, but she would have needed help.”

“And, if she wasn’t involved…”

“Then, my young friend,” Marcus said, “we have something more than murder.”

Harvey Marcus had been on the force for eighteen years. When Shindler had transferred to Homicide, Marcus had taken him under his wing. He had been fascinated by the shy and awkward young detective who seemed so lost inside his large, ungainly body. Marcus and Shindler had been partners for three years now and Shindler was still a mystery to Marcus. Marcus had noticed his partner’s emotional response to the boy’s body. He was surprised by it, but this was not out of character for Shindler, whose moods shifted unpredictably and who could be intensely emotional one minute and icily intellectual the next.

Shindler was a solitary man. He was a bachelor. A twenty-four-hour cop. He could be charming when his job required it, but Marcus had never seen him with his guard down in a social situation. Once, Ruth, Marcus’s wife, had tried to fix him up with one of her fellow teachers. Marcus had warned her, but she had insisted. The evening had been a disaster. Roy had squirmed through dinner, saying almost nothing. He would not speak to Marcus for two days.

“This is it,” Marcus said.

The Walters’ house was a two-story, white suburban ranch constructed of brick. A beautifully manicured lawn sprinkled with a few large shade trees framed it. Shindler parked the car and they followed a slate walk to the front door.

A young-looking woman in her early forties opened the door. Shindler felt his stomach tighten and his throat go dry. After all the times he had done it, he had still not found an easy way to tell the survivors about their dead.

“Mrs. Walters?”

“Yes,” she answered through the screen door.

He held out his badge.

“I’m Detective Shindler and this is Detective Marcus. We’re with the Portsmouth Police.”

In the space of a second, the woman’s face showed fear, hope and puzzlement. She stepped back and ushered them in.

“Is this about Richie? Have you found him?”

“Yes, it is. Is your husband home?”