“Are the victims missing clothes?” Connie asked.

“They’re dressed like they’re going to a prom. I’ve got a feeling they weren’t dressed like that before they were killed.”

“Why does that sound familiar to me?” Ahearn asked.

Alves motioned with his hands for them to move in closer. “We’re trying to keep this quiet. We think it might be the Prom Night Killer.”

“I thought he was dead,” Ahearn said.

“He hasn’t killed anyone in ten years. Not that we know of. But the way the bodies are dressed, looks like his work.”

In the unnatural glare of the lights, the concentrated silence of the men and women intent on their duties, the cool night air full of purpose, Connie knew this wasn’t an ordinary murder scene. They were dealing with a serial killer. A killer who had outwitted Alves’s old boss, Sergeant Detective Wayne Mooney, and the Boston Police Department for more than a decade. “Should we take a look at the bodies?” he asked, pulling a pair of latex gloves out of his back pocket.

“You and your obsession with crime scenes.” Alves showed a little smile.

“You don’t know the half of it.” Connie laughed. “Do we get to see them?”

“I tell you what, you guys do a good job searching every inch of ground leading up that hill while I process the bodies and the rest of the crime scene, and I’ll give you a quick walk-through before the ME takes them away. But don’t go near them until I say it’s okay. I’ve got to take photos, have the ME do a preliminary examination and then have the criminalists process for evidence. I don’t want to miss anything.”

“What are we waiting for?” Connie said to Greene and Ahearn. “You guys get started. I’ll make my call.”