THERE WAS THENA COUPLE of kids found her car. They called it into 911 and the one who spoke into the phone sounded breathless, caught up in something beyond himself as the words spilled out:
"There's like this car with blood in it and, ah, the door's open, and, ah-"
The 911 operator broke in and said, "What's the location of the car?"
"In the Flats," the kid said. "By Pen Park. Me and my friend found it."
"Is there a street address?"
"Sydney Street," the kid expelled into the phone. "There's blood in there and the door's open."
"What's your name, son?"
"He wants to know her name," the kid said to his friend. "Called me 'son.'"
"Son?" the operator said. "I said your name. What's your name?"
"We're so fucking outta here, man," the kid said. "Good luck."
The kid hung up and the operator noted from his computer screen that the call had come in from a pay phone on the corner of Kilmer and Nauset in the East Bucky Flats, about half a mile from the Sydney Street entrance to Penitentiary Park. He relayed the information to Dispatch and Dispatch sent a unit out to Sydney Street.
One of the patrolmen called back and requested more units, a Crime Scene tech or two, and, oh yeah, maybe you want to send a couple Homicides down or somebody like that. Just an idea.
"Have you found a body, Thirty-three? Over."
"Ah, negative, Dispatch."
"Thirty-three, why the request for Homicide if there's no body? Over."
"Looks of this car, Dispatch? I kinda feel like we're going to find one around here sooner or later."