The girl’s mother, Marcellyne Pathon, sat on the sofa, reviewing the faces in Hennessey’s Polaroids as, in the background, a song titled “Ain’t Got Time to Die” played softly on the radio, turned to KDYA: “Gospel by the Bay.” “Like I told you, these here are Mr. and Mrs. Toomey. They all lived up here for years.” She pointed to the older couple in their robes and slippers standing on the edge of the crowd in the street outside the murder scene. “Same as for the Carvilles and the—Where are they? There. Mrs. Ripperton and her sons. Went to school with Jamal Ripperton. All these folks been living up here the longest. Nothing strange about it.” “Okay, Marcellyne. Good. But these guys.” He pointed to the trio of young men unable to duck away from Hennessey’s flash quick enough, their faces caught in quarter angles. One of them wore a skully, his hand raised to hide behind. His accessorizing gave him away—three gold rings on the fingers of the upraised hand, at least four gold chains around his neck.
