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as he could without a bubble light to clear traffic, straight back the way they had come less than an hour ago. They’d reach the interstate in about fourteen minutes.
    “The deceased is Sergeant Harry Black,” Gaspar said, glancing into the rearview mirror to meet her eyes, catching her up on what he’d heard while waiting. “Shot and killed at home. With his own gun. By his wife, Sylvia.”
    “Did you know him well?” Kim asked Roscoe.
    “Since we were kids,” Roscoe said. “Harry Black grew up here. He’s worked in our department about five years, I guess. Second marriage. Sylvia worked as a secretary in our shop a while. That’s how they met. Married three years or so.”
    “So what happened today?” Gaspar asked.
    “You were there when I took the call. I have limited data. Sylvia called nine-one-one at eleven twenty-eight a.m. I haven’t heard the tape yet. At some point, we’ll get a copy and a transcript. I’m told she said, quote, ‘I shot him. He’s dead. I just couldn’t take him anymore.’ The operator asked her all the appropriate questions, and Sylvia just repeated those three sentences over and over again. She hasn’t uttered another word.”
    “Anybody at the scene?” Gaspar asked.
    “At the time of the shooting? I don’t know. But now, yes. The nine-one-one service here is routed through Atlanta. The operator called Georgia Highway Patrol first. Maybe not sure who had jurisdiction out at Harry’s. Could have been the County Sheriff. Both of us are at least twenty miles away. GHP had a car fairly close. They called us.”
    Roscoe’s voice had a slight edge to it, Kim thought.
    Gaspar asked, “Something wrong with calling the GHP?”
    “Not by itself, no.”
    “What, then?” Kim asked.
    Roscoe turned around in her seat. She met Kim’s gaze with a steady stare. She said, “GHP is a professional organization. They’ve got good officers and good training. Just like the FBI, I’m sure.”
    “But?”
    “But their jurisdiction is mostly crime on the highway system. You should know that’s different from murder of a small town cop. And they ride one man per car, so they have to call in for backup. And they use radio to communicate. And people listen in and show up. Which causes problems. Things can get out of hand in terms of crowd control.”
    Kim nodded. She’d handled more than her share of homicides, gang violence, domestic assaults. Law enforcement was a dangerous job everywhere, especially for women. The last thing Roscoe needed was chaos at the crime scene.
    Gaspar asked, “How soon would you have heard if the nine-one-one dispatcher had called you first?”
    “Within a couple of minutes, probably.”
    “Literally?”
    “More or less,” Roscoe said. “Two minutes would have done it.”
    “Eleven twenty-eight plus two is eleven thirty exactly,” Gaspar said, and he met his partner’s reflected gaze again. Kim nodded back.
    Gaspar saw it too.
    #
    The Black Road intersection was about two miles shy of the interstate. Roscoe told Gaspar to turn left, southwest, onto the dirt road. About fifty feet in the road became a mess of washboard grading, dust, and previous washouts. Gaspar slowed the Traverse to forty, which still bounced them around more than Kim found comfortable. She asked, “What did the GHP officer find when he arrived at the crime scene?”
    Roscoe said, “Sylvia came out onto the porch with her hands on her head before the GHP guy got out of his car. She didn’t say anything to him.”
    “Textbook,” Gaspar said. “For a perp, I mean.”
    “She worked with us a while and her husband was a cop. She knew what to do.” Roscoe peered ahead down the narrow alley between the Georgia pines. Kim could see nothing worth the stare.
    Gaspar asked, “And then?”
    “The GHP guy put her in handcuffs, confirmed Harry was dead, called for backup, medical examiner, crime scene, and paramedics.”
    “And then he called Officer Brent,” Gaspar said.
    “All