The tip sheet will be marked 1825 hours, but Shirley Moss knows—will have noted—that it was closer to 1828. Dulac has left to pick up the brother to make the run to Portland, and a young officer named Benedict, assigned to the task force for the night shift, takes the call at one of two tables as Shirley and a cadet are lifting the other, which is stacked with two-story wire trays holding tip sheets. Shirley lowers her side of the table to the floor and indicates to the cadet to do the same. She heard Officer Benedict say, “You saw the boy?” She holds, continues to listen to the uniformed officer’s questions. “They turned right?” the officer says. “That’s an easterly direction? The color of the car? Your name please?” As the officer replaces the phone, even as he continues to fill in spaces on the form, Shirley says, “Someone saw the boy? Is that what they said? When?” “I’m getting it down,” he says. “Just a second.” Shirley holds—bristles some—watching him make added notations too slowly.
