The white trooper said to Diamond, "Touch anything?"
Diamond shook his head.
The black trooper looked down at the woman. "Black," he said. "What the hell she doing out here?" Tinkham said, "I don't know. She don't live around here, though."
The black trooper looked at Tinkham for ten seconds, then he said, "No shit?"
Tinkham's face reddened. "Maybe she was selling watermelon," he said.
The black trooper smiled. Once. A smile that came on and went off. He looked down at the woman. "Junkie," he said.
The white trooper said, "Tracks?"
The black trooper nodded. "All up and down her right arm." The white trooper said to Newman, "You see the shooting?" "Yes," Newman said.
"Could you identify the killer?" "Yes," Newman said. "I'm sure I could."
CHAPTER 2.
It's like the Army, Newman thought. You go in one end of the process and it starts taking you along and you get numb and after a while you come out the other end. Honorable discharge. Or whatever. He sat at a gray metal table in the homicide squad room at state police headquarters on Commonwealth Avenue and looked at the pictures of criminals in large albums. He was still in warm-up pants and a white T-shirt that said Adidas across the front. He wore yellow Nike training shoes with a blue swoosh. The sweat that had been so lubricant two hours earlier had stiffened and chilled. He was hungry.
At 8:47 in the evening he saw the man. Profile and full face, staring at him. Hair slicked back, deep eye sockets. Adolph Karl, male, Caucasian, dob 7/15/30, aka Addie Kaye.
"This is him," Newman said.
A state police detective named Bobby Croft swung his feet down off the top of his desk and walked over. He looked at Karl's picture.
"Him?" Croft said. "Adolph Karl? Son of a bitch. You sure?"
Newman said, "Yes. That's him. I'm sure."