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lurked on the fringe. He was actually scouting for Jane.
    “You guys ready?”
    There. Black parka, that little stretchy hat. Some photographer stood beside her, snapping away. Still weird to see Jane without a TV camera.
    “Jake!” a woman’s voice called from the pack. “Lynne Squires, Channel Five. Can you give us an identification of the victim?
    “Can you confirm there’s a victim?” came another voice.
    “We hear there are kids.” A man’s voice. “This is Reuben Seltzer, from Channel Two. We’re broadcasting live now, Detective, so can you confirm—”
    “I have a brief statement,” Jake interrupted, “we’ll take a few questions, then we’re done. It’s late, it’s cold, we’re still investigating. You want more, you know to call Tom O’Day at headquarters.” He paused. They were doing their jobs. Like he was trying to. “I’m here so you’ll all go away and leave the neighbors in peace.”
    “Detective Brogan? Jane Ryland from the Register .” Jane’s voice. From the back. “The medical examiner doesn’t usually come in person. Can you tell us—”
    Katharine McMahan stepped forward, leading with her chin toward the bank of microphones, but Jake put out a hand, stopping her. “Ms. Ryland, as I said, I have a statement, it will come directly from me, and only from me.”
    “But Jake, she’s got a point,” another voice piped up. “Why is Dr. McMahan—”
    “You guys want the statement?” Jake wasn’t happy with this. It wasn’t SOP for him to be in front of the microphones. But the new PR flack, Tom O’Day, was out-of-pocket somewhere, the Supe said. So Jake was “volunteered” for the short straw. Sundays. He should be inside with the crime scene techs, checking evidence, not out here babysitting the media.
    “Ready? At approximately four forty-seven this afternoon Boston Police nine-one-one dispatch received a call reporting an incident at fifty-six Callaberry Street, Roslindale.”
    “It’s a triple-decker, what floor?”
    Jake ignored the question. They’d already checked the usual resources—registry records, resident list, even the phone book and Google. So far, nothing was showing for a resident at 56 Callaberry, apartment C. Interesting. As soon as he wrapped up this circus, he could go back to looking for answers.
    “Units from Area B responded to the address in question, found the body of a deceased white female, approximately thirty years old, in a third-floor kitchen. Police also found two juveniles, both now in police protective custody awaiting results of our investigation. We are asking the public for help in this matter, and hope that anyone who saw or heard anything, or who may have some evidence or information about what happened or may have happened, or who is acquainted with the victim, please call the Boston Police tip line at…”
    “We know the tip line number, Jake,” a reporter’s voice called out. “So is this a homicide? A domestic? Give us something, okay?”
    “Do you have any suspects? Jake, should people in this neighborhood be afraid? Take extra precautions?”
    Jake should have known this was coming. The no-win question. If he said people shouldn’t be afraid, reporters would assume it meant they had a suspect and a motive, but weren’t making it public. That would be the headline. If he said people should be afraid, reporters would decide a crazed unknown mother-killer was on the loose, and that’d be the headline.
    As well as the end of his career as a cop.
    “Our team is doing knock-and-talks now,” Jake said, floating a non-answer, “to assess—”
    “Any witnesses?” a voice interrupted.
    “Is this the victim’s home? Or whose?”
    Porch lights flicked on at the house across the street, then the one next to it, and then the one next to that one. The Channel 2 guy had said they were broadcasting live. Talk about a ghoul magnet. People watching TV were now seeing their own neighborhood, live, on the air. They’d