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not enter the scene until it was deemed safe by officers.
    Was the boy dead? Where were his parents? Were they still shaking hands with visitors, unaware their oldest son possibly lay dying—or was already dead?
    Joseph gripped the tie he’d yanked from his neck, wishing he had the shooter by the throat instead. After the gunshot, Catelyn had secured the area, then bolted toward the fallen boy, placing her own life in danger, doing what she could for him while keeping an eye on the area around her.
    Joseph had raced to the balcony after the shooter, knowing he was probably too late.
    He found nothing but a spent cartridge. The shooter had disappeared as quickly as he’d appeared. Joseph radioed to let EMS know they could approach.
    He looked around again. The person had left in a hurry and hadn’t bothered to clean up. Joseph turned back inside, studying the room. The shooter had either come up the stairsor the elevator. Joseph would bet the stairs in case there was a camera in the elevator.
    But they’d check it anyway.
    He walked over to a door just off the room. Twisted the knob. Locked. The sign said Employees Only.
    â€œExcuse me, sir?”
    Joseph turned to see a dark-suited man with a name tag that read Butler Dietz. Joseph asked, “What are you doing up here? Can you open this room?”
    The man’s brow furrowed. “I work here.” He pulled a set of keys from his pocket, located the right one and unlocked the door. Joseph glanced in.
    A room full of coffins. And everything looked relatively undisturbed. He spoke into his radio, “Set up a perimeter, question everyone, don’t let anyone leave the scene.” An affirmative answer squawked back at him.
    He turned the worker, saying, “Okay, thanks. I need you out of here, too. This is a crime-scene and I need to keep it preserved.”
    Flustered, the man nodded and headed for the stairs, meeting a swarm of cops coming up. Joseph motioned for one of the officers to escort the man down, then filled the rest of them in on the situation. “Crime-scene unit’s on the way.”
    â€œWe’ve got this covered,” a tall officer assured Joseph.
    Joseph loped back down the steps to find Catelyn watching a man work on Zachary, the EMTs offering their assistance as it was requested.
    She looked up at his approach, question in her eyes.
    Joseph pursed his lips and shook his head. “No, he got away.”
    â€œHe?”
    A shrug. “He, she. Whoever. The shooter’s gone. Crime scene unit’s on the way. Uniforms are preserving the scene.” Hepointed to the man on his knees beside Zachary. “Who’s this guy?”
    â€œA doctor. He insisted on trying to help.”
    The man looked up. “I was late coming from the hospital for the funeral. I’m a friend of the Merritts. When I saw all the commotion, I thought I’d see if I could help.” He looked back down at Zachary who lay still and pale. “The bullet grazed his head. It didn’t enter the skull, which is a good thing, but it might have fractured it. I’ve called a neurologist. He’ll be waiting at the hospital when we get there.”
    â€œThanks.”
    A man rushed up and said, “Oh my…can I do anything?”
    â€œWho are you?” Joseph queried.
    â€œI’m Alan Dillard, the baseball coach at Esterman High. Zachary was…is one of my players. What’s going on? Who would do such a…”
    â€œZachary! Oh, no, oh, my…” Joseph turned to see Zachary’s mother rushing from the mortuary. The boy’s father was right behind with the younger brother bringing up the rear.
    â€œWhat happened? What’s going on? Why is this happening?” The distraught woman wailed her grief, echoing the coach’s questions. Two of her three children: one dead and one severely wounded. His heart went out to her.
    Alan Dillard grabbed the woman’s shoulder,