“I spent the night with my girlfriend, Janelle Eckles. We met three and a half weeks ago. She works at State.”

Savich said, “Who could have had access to your computers, or used your IP address?”

“Anyone, if they were in my apartment and knew how. Or someone could have hacked through my router, I guess.”

Sherlock asked, “And who could that be?”

“I know a lot of people—at work, from school, friends—though I’m better at it than most of them.”

Savich said, “Let’s begin with a friend. How about Peter Biaggini? Did he have an apartment key, know your passwords?”

“Peter doesn’t have a key, and yes, he may know some of my passwords. I’m not that careful with them.”

“Have you ever known Peter to be involved with anything illegal?”

Stony thought about this. “Only teenage stuff, a long time ago. When he was in the eighth grade, he wanted me to ruin another kid’s science project so he would win. I told him I wouldn’t do it, so he slashed my mom’s tires. It was her new car, a Prius, and she loved driving it around. He denied it, but I knew. When we were growing up, Peter made sure we all knew there’d be payback if we didn’t do what he wanted.”

“And now?”

“We’re grown up now; it’s not like that.”

“You deny you posted Tommy’s photo. Did anyone else ask you to post it for him? Like Peter?”

“No, no, I swear.” Stony shook his head. “It’s all so terrible,” he said, and he lowered his face into his hands again.

Savich said, “You may go, Stony.”

Stony’s face jerked up, hope blooming bright through the tearstains on his face. “Really? You’re not going to arrest me?”

“Not at the moment,” Sherlock said, her eyes on Dillon, “but we’ll be talking again. And if you’ve lied to us, you’re in more trouble than you know.”

Savich handed Stony a card. “If you find anything or think of anything that could help, call me. I’m sorry you lost your friend, Stony. We’re keeping your computers for the time being. I’m calling a guard to take you home.”

“Thank you, sir.”

Savich said, “I suggest you don’t speak with anyone else who might be involved in this, including Peter Biaggini, all right?”

“But how can anyone I know have done this? I mean, we’re all friends, especially Peter, now that Tommy’s gone. Well, sometimes Peter—well, he likes to run the herd, that’s what he calls his friends, but he wouldn’t have anything to do with this.” He paused, shook his head, and went silent.

Sherlock leaned in close to him. “What do you want to say, Stony? Is it about Peter?”

Stony’s face was white and set. “No. I don’t know how or why Tommy was murdered, why anyone used my computer to upload that photo. I didn’t mean anything in particular. Really.”

Stony looked up at the guard who came to escort him out of the Hoover Building, then he looked down at his sneakered feet and never looked up again; he was misery walking.

Coop said, “Whatever it is Stony’s not telling us, the kid’s going to live with this for a lifetime.”

Lucy said, “Why wouldn’t he tell us what he was thinking? Was it about Peter?”

Coop said, “Or maybe he’s protecting someone else. Someone close.”

Savich said, “We’ll speak to him again after he’s had time to think things over. Right now I want to speak to Peter Biaggini and his father. I’ve got this feeling we’ll get more out of them if they’re together.” Savich called Ben Raven, WPD, and asked him to send two uniforms to pick up Peter Biaggini and bring him to the FBI building in the oldest squad car he had. “Shake him up a little, too, this leader of the herd. I want him cuffed if he gives your officers any lip, and sitting behind the wire mesh, smelling that old car.”

Savich telephoned Mr. Biaggini from his office, asked him to come to the Hoover Building to speak to them about Tommy Cronin’s murder. Mr. Biaggini wasn’t happy, couldn’t understand why they would want to speak to him, but agreed. Yes, he would be there in an hour.

Not a minute later, Savich’s cell sang out “Sweet Home, Alabama.” When he punched off his cell, he said, “Stony’s dad is here. Mr. Wakefield Hart, in the flesh.”

The first impression Sherlock had on seeing Wakefield Hart was that he had the look of gravitas down cold. He was a good dresser, too, and he looked confident, in charge of his world. He also looked royally pissed, and that gave her a warm glow.