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way.”
    â€œGreat,” I said. “When the detectives get here, be sure they get prints off everything. It’s hard to find a suspect from an unknown print like that, but once we get the bad guys, having their prints in the system will help put them at the scene of the crime.”
    â€œYou got it,” Bob told me. “I’ll see to it.”
    In the bar, the organ that usually filled the place with sing-­along music far into the night was notably silent. The organist was there, but he was sitting alone at the bar quietly having a beer. With Lulu’s body still in the parking lot, it wasn’t at all surprising that nobody felt like singing. In the darkened room, seated against the far wall at four separate tables, were the other eight ­people who had been seated in Lulu’s station at the time all hell broke loose. Still shocked by what had happened, they huddled together in a subdued group, nursing their drinks and their fear.
    Milton Gurkey was my partner. Whether Pickles lived or died, I understood this wouldn’t be my case to investigate. Someone else would be doing in-­depth interviews of all the potential witnesses, including talking to the poor ­people currently sheltering in the bar of the Doghouse. All I wanted from them right that moment was a general description of the two suspects—­something I could give to the guys out on the streets in patrol cars so officers in the area could be on the lookout for them.
    What I ended up with was certainly vague enough. Two guys: one about six feet tall, the other a little shorter. The taller of the two was light-­complected with dirty blond hair and maybe/maybe not a mustache. He was wearing yellow and brown plaid Bermuda shorts, a white T-­shirt, and tennis shoes with no socks. The other guy, five-­ten or so, was both shorter and heavier. He had olive skin—­maybe Hispanic. He wore jeans, tennis shoes, and a blue plaid shirt. In other words, neither of these guys were fashion plates, but with the seasonably hot weather, their costumes wouldn’t give them away, either, not the way sweatshirts or parkas would have.
    By the time I went back outside, the response to the incident made for mayhem on the street. Although the ambulance had already taken off, there were still fire trucks and plenty of patrol cars, marked and unmarked, in attendance. I tracked down the patrol sergeant and gave him what I had gleaned as far as descriptions were concerned. Having done what I could, I drove to Harborview Hospital, where I planted myself in the waiting room of the ER and waited for word on whether or not Pickles Gurkey was going to make it.
    I was there when a sergeant from Patrol brought Anna Gurkey to the hospital and dropped her off. Previously, I had never met the woman, but I knew who she was when she walked up to the admitting desk and asked the clerk about her husband, Milton Gurkey. Whatever was going on with the patient right then, he wasn’t being allowed visitors. Having been given that information, Anna retreated to one of the straight-­backed chairs lining the room. As soon as she was seated, I went up and introduced myself.
    Anna Gurkey looked liked she might have stepped out of the movie version of The Sound of Music . She reminded me of the homely woman who keeps who bobbing and nodding to the sounds of applause when her group is given its second place award in the talent contest. In other words, Anna wasn’t a beauty-­queen showstopper. She had a broad face with rough, reddish skin. Her dingy, graying hair was pulled back in a straggly bun. Anna’s basic plain-­Jane looks were worsened by the reality of where she was and what had happened. She looked the way family members found in ER waiting rooms always look—­haggard, terrified, and shell-­shocked.
    â€œYou’re Jonas?” she asked when she heard my name. “Were you there? What happened? The officer who