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hoarsely, fighting his way to his feet. His eyes gleamed with tears and fury. “Get them out of here!”
    “You—” Ogden started.
    Kovac hit him in the chest with the heel of his hand. It was like slapping a slab of granite. “Shut up! Outta here!”
    Rubel stalked past and Ogden fell in step, fuming. Kovac dogged their heels into the living room.
    “What the hell did you say to him?”
    “Nothing,” Rubel returned.
    “I was talking to the other ox. You said something stupid, didn’t you? Christ, what a question! I might as well ask if shit is brown,” Kovac said with disgust.
    “He attacked me,” Ogden said indignantly. “He assaulted an officer.”
    “Yeah?” Kovac said tightly, getting in his face. “You want to go there, Ogden? You want to make a report detailing this little fiasco? You want Mr. Pierce there to give a statement? You want your supervisor reading what a dickhead you are?”
    Sulking, the officer pulled a dingy handkerchief out of his pocket and dabbed it under his nose.
    “You’re gonna be lucky he doesn’t call the citizens’ commission and sue the department,” Kovac said. “Now get outta here and go do your jobs.”
    Rubel led the way out the front door, jaw set, eyes narrow. Ogden hustled up alongside him to the street, bloody rag held to his nose with one hand, the other gesticulating as he tried to impress something on his partner, who didn’t want to hear.
    The crime scene van pulled up behind the radio car at the curb. A pair of shitty compacts swarmed in from opposite directions like buzzards. Newsies. Kovac felt his lip start to curl. He stepped back into the house, catching Burgess reaching for a stack of videocassettes on a shelf beside the television.
    “Don’t touch anything!” Kovac snapped. “Get out on the lawn and keep the reporters away. ‘No comment’—do you think you can manage that, or is it too many syllables?”
    Burgess ducked his head.
    “And I want every license plate on the block noted and run. Got that?”
    “Yessir,” the cop said through his teeth as he went out.
    “Where do they get these guys?” Kovac asked as he went back to the kitchen.
    “They breed them up north as pack animals,” Liska said, meeting him at the archway into the room. “Ogden made a crack about one less fag. Pierce lost it. Who can blame him?”
    “Great,” Kovac muttered. “Let’s hope he doesn’t decide to get vocal about it. Bad enough Andy Fallon’s dead. We don’t need to broadcast to the whole metropolitan area which way his willy waggled.”
    The crime scene team came through then, toting their cases and cameras. The scene would be photographed again and videotaped. The area of the death scene would be dusted for prints. If there was any evidence to gather, it would be photographed, its exact position measured and noted; it would be logged and marked and packaged with great care taken to establish the chain of custody so that its every moment could be accounted for. And all the while Andy Fallon’s body would hang there, waiting for the arrival of the ME’s people.
    Kovac briefed the senior criminalist and directed them upstairs.
    Liska had herded Steve Pierce back to the kitchen table. He sat like a man who wanted to pace, one hand rubbing his throat. Ogden’s blood stained his knuckles. He had pulled his tie loose and undone his collar. The black suit was limp and rumpled.
    “Mind if we sit down, Steve?” Kovac asked.
    Pierce made no reply. They sat anyway. Kovac produced a microcassette recorder from his pocket, turned it on, and placed it on the table.
    “We’ll make a recording of our conversation here, Steve,” he explained casually. “So that we’re sure we’ve got all the details straight when we get back to the station to write our reports. Is that all right with you?”
    Pierce nodded wearily, dragging a hand back through his hair.
    “I’ll need you to answer out loud, Steve.”
    “Yes. Sure. Fine.” He tried to clear his