“Sure. No problem.”

Byrne gave the man his cell phone number, thanked him, hung up.

Since the story broke on the murder and mutilation of Monica Renzi, the PPD’s press office had held a news conference. The official word was that it was still not known if the murder of Monica Renzi was connected to the murder of Caitlin O’Riordan, but that did not stop the mainstream press from speculation, or the alternative press from simply saying so.

In typical journalistic fashion, they had to pin a name on this case. A “unnamed source” within the police department told a reporter that there was a man who was taking girls off the street, keeping them in custody for a while before killing them. The newspaper referred to the killer as “The Collector.”

Byrne figured no one at the paper, a birdcage liner called The Report, had ever read The Collector by John Fowles—a novel about a young man, a butterfly collector, who kidnaps a woman and keeps her in his basement—but that didn’t matter. It would only be a matter of time before the mainstream press picked up on it, then the public, and eventually it would find its way into police department memos.

The four detectives met in the lobby of the Roundhouse. They were all dressed in casual clothes. The strategy being, if they were going to talk to runaways and homeless kids, they wanted to look like anything but authority figures. Byrne and Andre Curtis were pretty much hopeless in this area. They both looked like cops. Jessica and Josh Bontrager were a little more likely to gain their confidence.

Jessica wore jeans and a white T-shirt and running shoes. She could almost pass for a college student, Byrne thought. Byrne wore a black polo shirt and chinos. He looked like an off duty cop trying to blend in. But he was surprised to see that this shirt fit. It had been getting a little tight. Maybe he was getting in shape after all.

Jessica briefed Josh Bontrager and Dre Curtis on what she had found online. They made their notes and headed out.

A few minutes later Jessica and Byrne walked out of the Roundhouse. The air was a blast furnace. Still no rain.

“Ready to revisit your misspent youth?” Byrne asked as they slipped into the Taurus.

“What are you talking about?” Jessica said. “I’m still misspending it.”

WHILE JOSH BONTRAGER and Dre Curtis went to Penn Treaty Park, Jessica and Byrne started on South Street. They parked on Columbus Boulevard and took the South Street pedestrian bridge over I-95.

South Street was part of the Queen Village neighborhood, one of the oldest sections of Philadelphia. Its business district ran from Front Street to around Ninth Street.

On the way to South Philly they had decided that it would be best for Jessica to ask the questions. Byrne would shadow her from the other side of the street.

They began at Front Street, in front of Downey’s, and slowly worked their way west. This section of South was crammed with pubs, restaurants, clubs, bookstores, record stores, piercing and tattoo parlors, pizza shops, and even one large condom specialty store. It was a magnet for young people of all styles—Goth, punk, hip-hop, skateboarders, collegiates, Jersey Boys—as well as a thriving tourist trade.

There wasn’t too much you couldn’t find on this street; legal, otherwise, and every stop in between. To a lot of people, South was the beating heart of Philly.

Between Second and Third, Jessica talked to a group of teenagers; three boys and two girls. Byrne always marveled at how good she was at things like this. They had to identify themselves as police officers of course, and the few kids Byrne tried to approach on his own just took off once Byrne produced his ID. Not so for Jessica. People opened up to her.

All of the kids said they were either from Philly, or in town visiting relatives. Nobody was ever a runaway.

At the corner of Fourth and South, Jessica talked to a young girl. The girl, about fifteen, had her blond hair in pigtails, and wore a tie-dyed tank top and denim skirt. She had a half dozen piercings in her nose, lips, and ears. Byrne was out of earshot, but he saw that when Jessica showed the girl a photograph, the girl studied it, then nodded. A minute later Jessica handed the girl a card, moved on.

It turned out to be a dead end. The girl said she had heard of a girl named Starlight, but had never met her, and had no idea where she might be.

By the time they got to Tenth Street, where the shopping and hangout spots dropped off, they had talked to fifty or sixty teenagers, about two dozen shop owners. No one remembered seeing either Caitlin O’Riordan or Monica Renzi. No one knew anything about anything. Jessica and Byrne grabbed lunch at Jim’s Steaks, and headed to the train station.

FORTY-THREE

LILLY SAT ON the ground near the Franklin Institute, her back against the low stone wall. She was still high, crashing fast, and still a little freaked out about the incident on the corner. Had the kid’s face really been on fire?

Regardless, all of that was rearview mirror. She was broke, she had nowhere to stay, and everybody she met was worse off than her.

But she would not give up. She had made a promise, and that was something she rarely did. It would be honored.

Before she could formulate a new plan, she looked up to see a man coming toward her. He walked all the way across the street, motoring fast, his eyes on her the whole time. She looked away a few times, but every time she glanced back he was staring at her. And getting closer.

He was dressed in a white shirt and black pants. He was blond, had pretty cool hair, light blue eyes, a nice face. He stopped right in front of her, smiled. He was kind of cute, actually.

But he was still a stranger.

“Hi,” he said.

Lilly didn’t answer. The guy didn’t leave. Instead, he waited a few seconds, then reached into his back pocket.

Now what? Lilly thought. Jehovah’s Witness? Human resource director for a strip club?

“My name is Josh Bontrager,” he said. “I’m with the Philadelphia Police department.”

He showed her a gold badge and ID card, but Lilly didn’t really see it. She felt the blood rushing in her ears, felt her heart start beating like a racehorse. This was it, she thought. This was how it was going to end. She had come to Philadelphia with a purpose, and now she was going to jail. All she could see was that sick twist, Mr. Mushroom Teeth, laying in that alley, drooling on the pavement.

“What’s your name?” he asked.

His voice brought her spiraling back to reality. She looked around, a little surprised to see all the people. She had forgotten where she was for a moment.

“Lilly.”

Her voice sounded small, even from the inside. She sounded like a wounded mouse.

“I’m sorry?”

“Lilly.”

“Ah, okay. Nice to meet you, Lilly. Great day, huh?”

Lilly just stared at the ground.

“Right. Well. I’d like to talk to you for a few seconds, if that’s okay.” She looked up. He didn’t look mad, or threatening or anything. Actually, he looked a little bit like a farm boy at a school dance. “What about?” she asked.

He put his badge back into his pocket, held up an envelope. “I won’t take up too much of your time. I promise.”

He got on the ground next to her, sat down, back against the wall. He put his feet out in front of him, crossed his legs. If he was going to arrest her, put her in handcuffs and haul her away, this was a pretty frig-gin’ weird way of going about it. They never played it this way on Law & Order. Not even on COPS.

“Now, first off, I’m not going to ask you anything about your life, okay? I’m not going to ask you where you’re from, why you’re here, or what you’re doing. I’m not even going to ask you your last name. Deal?”