Jessicalooked at Byrne, then back. 'Parkwood?'

    'Whatabout it?'

    'Well,it's just come up twice in one day.'

    'Whatdo you mean?' Drummond asked.

    Jessicaexplained what they had done that afternoon, about Abraham Coltrane's claimthat Marcellus Palmer, the 2004 victim found in the Dumpster just a few blocksfrom where they now stood, was buried in or around Parkwood. Drummond thoughtfor a few moments.

    'Well,I'm pretty sure there used to be a potter's field in Parkwood,' he said.'It closed a while back.'

    'Closed?'

    'Yeah.I think the bodies were disinterred and either moved to other cemeteries orcremated. I think there was supposed to be some kind of development that wentin that spot, but nothing ever happened.' Drummond drained his glass, put it onthe bar. 'Can you imagine living on top of a former cemetery?'

    Jessicafelt a chill at the idea. 'Do you know where the cemetery was located?'

    Drummondshrugged. 'No idea. Sorry. I might even be wrong about this.'

    'Counselor!'someone shouted drunkenly from across the room. 'You're needed for a voirdire.'

    Itwas two old-timers from the DA's office. The voir dire was a process ofjury selection, generally involving the judge and attorneys asking potentialjurors about their experiences and beliefs. On the table in front of the twoADAs was one of every different kind of drink in the bar. There had to be fiftyfull glasses. Drummond looked back at Jessica and Byrne. 'Looks like the nightisn't over for me yet. Thanks again for coming.'

    Drummondslipped off his coat and staggered across the room.

    Downstairs,a few minutes later, Byrne held the door for Jessica. They stepped out ontoSpring Garden Street.

    'So,what time do you want to meet me at L & I?' Byrne asked. The License &Inspections division had city-zoning archives going back more than two hundredyears. If there had once been a cemetery in or around Parkwood it would berecorded there.

    'Assoon as they open, detective,' Jessica said.

Chapter 38

    Thursday,October 28

    Thecity's last official potter's field had opened in 1956 in Philadelphia'sNortheast. Prior to its opening, the most active potter's field had been in asection now used as a police parking lot at Luzerne Street and Whitaker Avenue,adjoining Philadelphia Municipal Hospital, where it became the final restingplace for thousands who died in the 1918 flu epidemic. At various times in thecity's history, indigent or unclaimed deceased were buried in a number ofplaces, including Logan Square, Franklin Field, Reyburn Park, even at thecorner of 15th and Catharine, just a few blocks from where Jessica had grownup.

    Thesedays, in the interest of logistics and expense, many of the unidentified andindigent were being cremated, with remains stored in a room off the morgue atthe medical examiner's office.

    Jessicaand Byrne visited the zoning-archives department of Licenses and Inspections atjust after eight a.m. The L & I office was located in the MunicipalServices Building at 15th and JFK. What they learned was that there had oncebeen a potter's field located in the Parkwood section of NortheastPhiladelphia, a field that had since closed.

    Theystopped for coffee and got onto 1-95 at just after nine a.m.

    Thefield was located near the intersection of Mechanicsville Road and Dunks FerryRoad at the southern end of Poquessing Valley Park.

    Onthe south side of Dunks Ferry Road were blocks of two-story twin row homes,their fasciae festooned with Halloween decorations ranging from the elaborate(one had a skeleton about to climb down the chimney) to the ordinary (an alreadydented plastic pumpkin stuck on a gas light).

    Jessicaand Byrne got out of the car, crossed the road. They walked through the treesinto a large open field. Here the ground was rippled - the uneven remnants ofgraves that had been there a long time.

    Therewere no headstones, no crypts, no vaults, no mausoleum. The field had indeedbeen closed, the bodies moved or cremated, the area planted over.

    Jessicalooked at the rutted sod. She considered the generations of kids to come,flying kites, playing kickball, unaware that at one time the ground beneaththeir feet had held the remnants of the city's homeless, its indigent, itslost.

    Theywalked slowly across the undulating earth, looking for any sign of what hadonce been there - a buried headstone, a grave marker of any kind, a stake inthe ground indicating the boundaries of the cemetery. There was nothing. Theearth had long ago begun to reclaim the area with life.

    'Wasthis the only city field in this area?' Jessica asked.

    'Yeah,'Byrne said. 'This was it.'

    Jessicalooked around. Nothing looked promising, at least as it might concern thecases. 'We're wasting our time up here, aren't we?'

    Byrnedidn't reply. Instead he crouched down, ran his hand over a bare patch ofground. A few moments later he stood, dusted off his hands.

    Jessicaheard a rustling in the nearby trees. She looked up to see a half-dozen crowsperched tenuously on a low branch of a nearby maple. A murder of crows,she had once learned, and had ever since thought how odd a term that was. Aflock of geese, a herd of cattle, a murder of crows. Soon another black birdlanded, rustling the others, who responded with a series of loud caws andflapping wings. One of them took off and swooped toward the low shrubs at the otherside of the field. Jessica followed the pattern of flight.

    'Kevin,'she said, pointing to the bird before it landed out of sight. They looked ateach other, started across the open field.

    Beforethey got halfway they saw it - the unnatural gleam through the greenery, thebright white surface glinting in the sunlight.

    Theysprinted the last hundred feet or so and found the body lying in a shallowdepression.

    Thevictim was black, male, in his forties or fifties. He was nude, his body shavenhead to toe. The ground beneath the corpse was not yet overgrown with grass. Itwas a former grave.

    'Motherfucker,'Byrne yelled.

    Hestepped through the scene, taking care not to disturb the surrounding area. Heput two fingers to the man's neck. 'Jesus Christ,' he said. 'His body's stillwarm. Let's get everyone and his mother down here. Let's get a K-9 unit.'

    ThenByrne gently opened the dead man's hand. There, on the ring finger of his left hand,was the tattoo of a fish.

    Theyboth called it in - Byrne contacted the crime-scene unit, Jessica contacted thehomicide unit who would then alert the MEO. They spread out to either side of theopen field, weapons out. They checked the immediate area, combing the bushes,the scrub, the culverts and ditches, finding nothing.

    Laterthey regrouped at the corner, each lost in their own thoughts. Although theyhad not immediately located any ID, there was no doubt in either Jessica's orByrne's mind that the body they'd found - the dead man lying atop a formergrave - was that of Tyvander 'Hoochie' Alice.

    Thetactical team hit the block in six cars, a combination of special-investigation detectives and members of the fugitive squad.

    RussDiaz and his squad fanned out north and east, toward the woods. A K-9 unitshowed up a few minutes later. The next car brought Dana Westbrook. For themoment, this relatively quiet corner of Northeast Philadelphia - a place thathad one time been a place of repose and solitude - was crawling withlaw-enforcement personnel.

    Ten minutes later the dog and his officer came full circle, backto the parking area near the ball diamonds. It probably meant that thekiller had parked there, returned after dumping the body, and then left. Ifthat was so, the trail was cold.