12:20 a.m.
THE NIGHT Philadelphia lost its mind, police officer Deborah Parks was patrolling the Ninth with her rookie, Rob Sheplavy.
He was a nice enough kid, maybe a little overeager. They’d been together since just after New Year’s Day, when the red-and-gold holiday decorations were quickly replaced by Eagles-green banners to celebrate the team clawing its way to the NFC playoffs.
Now it was just after midnight on a freezing Sunday in late January, when Philly was at its darkest and coldest. The Birds were facing off against the Giants, and aside from a few rowdy drunks with their faces painted green, the residents of the city had apparently decided to take a collective breather before tonight’s kickoff.
As they went around the Museum of Art toward Eakins Oval, Sheplavy’s face lit up. “Check out that sweet Maserati.”
Parks followed his sight line to the sports car, which had been detailed with a laser-blue holographic wrap. The thing literally glowed in the street, where it appeared to have paused at a stoplight at the far end of the traffic circle. Only problem: The traffic circle had no light. But still, the Maserati had come to a dead stop, nose slightly out of its lane.
“What is up with this guy?” Parks said. “Look, we’re going to pull up a little closer and I’ll check it out. You stay here.”
“Wait—can’t I come with you?”
“I need you to hang back. And don’t touch the radio!”
Parks hated being rough with the new kid. But he had a tendency to go rogue, and she knew something was off about this even before she climbed out of the car.
As Parks moved closer, she could see someone slumped behind the wheel of the glowing vehicle. Was the driver passed out drunk?
No. The body language was all wrong—his head was tilted at an unnatural angle, his shoulders were completely still, and there was no sign of breathing.
Parks glanced back to make sure the rookie was where he should be. “Stay in the car, Sheplavy!”
If the rookie heard, he didn’t respond.
Steeling herself, Parks moved to the driver’s side, hand near her service weapon just in case this guy turned out to be (a) alive and (b) drunk and pissed. But she knew that would be the best-case scenario.
Parks called out to him, trying to wake him up. The driver didn’t stir. She reached in and touched the side of his neck with two fingers. The man’s skin was ice cold, and there was no pulse.
Parks had forgotten to put on gloves, and when she lifted her fingers away from the driver’s neck, she was surprised to find them tacky. She looked down at her hands and realized that the city’s new LED streetlights had made the body look as if it were covered in shadows.
But it was blood. So much blood…