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friends. I took his word for it.”
    Starkey nudged me farther from the uniforms again and lowered her voice even more.
    â€œWhat I’m saying, Cole, is I can have him explain it to you. You want me to set it up?”
    It was like being thrown a life preserver in a raging storm, but I glanced up at the house. Poitras was standing in the door. They were about to come out.
    â€œI don’t want you to get in trouble.”
    â€œHey, fuck Marx. The real chief gets back, he’ll probably ream the guy a new asshole. You want in with my guy or not?”
    â€œThat would be great, Carol. Really.”
    The woman across the street was still in her window, watching us as I left.

5
    STARKEY SET me up with a Criminal Conspiracy Section detective named Marcus Lindo, who was one of many detectives brought in from the divisions to assist with the task force. She cautioned that his knowledge was limited, but told me he would help me the best he could. When I called him, it was clear from the start that Lindo didn’t want to see me. He told me to meet him at a place called Hop Louie in Chinatown, but warned he would not acknowledge me in any way if other police officers were present. It was as if we were passing Cold War secrets.
    Lindo showed up at ten minutes after three with a royal blue three-ring binder tucked under his arm. He was younger than I expected, with espresso skin, nervous eyes, and glasses. He walked directly to me and did not introduce himself.
    â€œLet’s take a booth.”
    Lindo put the binder on the table and his hands on the binder.
    â€œBefore we get started, let’s get something straight. I can’t have this getting back to me. I owe Starkey plenty, but if you tell anyone we sat down like this, I will call you a liar to your face and then it’s on her. Are you good with this?”
    â€œI’m good. Whatever you say.”
    Lindo was scared, and I didn’t blame him. A deputy chief could make or break his career.
    â€œMy understanding is you want to see the death album. What is it you want to know?”
    â€œThree years ago I proved Lionel Byrd did not kill Yvonne Bennett. Now you guys are saying he did.”
    â€œThat’s right. He killed her.”
    â€œHow?”
    â€œI don’t know how, not the way you mean. We broke the casework down into teams. My team worked on the album and the residence. The vic teams worked the ins and outs on the vics. I know the book. The book is how we know he’s good for it.”
    â€œHaving pictures doesn’t prove he killed these women. Pictures could have been taken by anyone at the scene.”
    â€œNot pictures like these—”
    Lindo opened the binder, then turned it so I could see. The first page was a digital image of the album’s cover showing a hazy beach at sunset and curving palms. The cover was embossed with gold script lettering: My Happy Memories . It was the type of album you could buy at any drugstore, with stiff plastiboard pages sandwiched between clear plastic cover sheets that adhered to the plastiboard. You could peel the cover sheet up, put your pictures on the page, then press the cover sheet back into place to hold the pictures. Just seeing the cover creeped me out. My Happy Memories .
    â€œThere were twelve pages in all, but the last five were blank. We recovered fiber and hair samples trapped under the cover sheets, then lasered everything and put it in the glue for prints—”
    Lindo checked off the elements with his fingers.
    â€œFront cover, back cover, inside front cover, inside back cover, the seven pages with the pictures plus the five blanks, the twenty-four plastic cover sheets, plus all seven Polaroids. All of the discernible prints or print fragments matched one individual—Lionel Byrd. The fibers came from Byrd’s couch. They’re running DNA on the hair now, but it’s going to match. The criminalist says it is eyeball-identical with