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but he was doing okay. You just had to be tougher than the pain, and eat a few painkillers.
    Bud Orso was in his early forties, with a chubby scoutmaster’s face topped by a crown of short black hair. He was waiting when Scott stepped off the elevator, which Scott had not expected.
    “Bud Orso. Pleasure to meet you, though I’m sorry it’s under these circumstances.”
    Orso had a surprisingly strong grip, but released Scott quickly and led him toward the Homicide Special offices.
    “I’ve been living with this file since they handed me the case. Horrible, what happened that night. How long have you been back on the job?”
    “Eleven weeks.”
    Polite conversation. Scott was already irritated, and wondered what was waiting for him in the Homicide Special squad room.
    “I’m surprised they let you.”
    “Let me what?”
    “Come back. You were squared up for a medical.”
    Scott didn’t respond. He was already tired of talking, and sorry he came.
    Orso noted the K-9 patch on Scott’s shoulder as they walked.
    “K-9. That should be interesting.”
    “Better. They do what you say, don’t talk back, and it’s only a dog.”
    Orso finally took the hint and fell silent as he led Scott into Homicide Special. Scott felt himself tense when he stepped through the door, but only five detectives were scattered about the room, and none glanced over or acknowledged him in any way. He followed Orso into a small conference room with a rectangular table and five chairs. A large black file box was on the floor at the head of the table. Scott saw his transcribed statements spread across the table, and statements made by the friends and families of the two men who had been inside the Bentley, a real estate developer named Eric Pahlasian, the driver, who had been shot sixteen times, and his cousin from France, a real estate attorney named Georges Beloit, who had been shot eleven times.
    Orso went to the head of the table, and told Scott to sit wherever he liked.
    Scott braced himself, then averted his face when he sat so Orso couldn’t see his grimace. Taking a seat always caused a painful jolt in his side.
    “Want a coffee or some water?”
    “I’m good. Thanks.”
    A large drawing of the crime scene leaned against the wall on the floor. Someone had sketched in the Kenworth, the Bentley, the Gran Torino, and the Adam car. Someone had sketched in Stephanie and Scott. A manila envelope lay on the floor by the poster board. Scott guessed crime scene photos were in the envelope, and glanced away. When he looked up, Orso was watching, and now Orso didn’t look like a scoutmaster. There was a focus to his eyes that hardened them to points.
    “I understand talking about this might be difficult.”
    “No sweat. What did you want to know?”
    Orso studied him for a moment, then gave him the question.
    “Why didn’t the big man finish you?”
    Scott had asked himself this ten thousand times, but could only guess at the answer.
    “Paramedics, is my guess. The sirens were getting closer.”
    “Did you see him leave?”
    If Orso read the interviews, he already knew the answer.
    “No. I saw him lift the rifle. The gun came up, I laid back, and maybe I passed out. I don’t know.”
    Later, in the hospital, they told him he had passed out from blood loss.
    “Did you hear them leave?”
    “No.”
    “Doors closing?”
    “No.”
    “Were you awake when the paramedics arrived?”
    “What did they say?”
    “I’m asking you.”
    “The rifle came up, I put my head back, and then I was in the hospital.”
    Scott’s shoulder was killing him. A deep ache, as if his muscles were turning to stone. The ache spread across his back as if the scar tissue was splitting apart.
    Orso slowly nodded, then made a crooked shrug.
    “The sirens are a good bet, but you never know. When you slumped back, maybe he thought you were dead. Maybe he was out of ammo. Gun might have jammed. One day we’ll ask him.”
    Orso picked up a slender report, and