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wasn't working, the husband liked to go to a local bar, get drunk, and pick fights. It was the hottest September anybody could remember, yet the wife always wore high, buttoned collars and long sleeves. Later it became obvious that she did that to hide bruises.
    The boy was quiet in school, always fidgeting as if he was afraid he'd make a mistake and get punished.
    "That night, when the boy phoned, afraid that his dad was going to kill his mom, my father got in his cruiser and hurried over there.
    The house was near the stock pens, a run-down adobe with patches of stucco missing on the walls. The lights were on. When my father heard shouting and sobbing, he knocked on the door and identified himself as a police officer. That's how I imagine it anyhow. I've gone over it in my head more times than I care to think.
    "The shouting stopped. My father knocked again, and a shotgun blast from inside tore the door in half. It pretty much tore my father in half, also. I doubt he lived long enough to feel himself hit the ground."
    Page leaned forward in his chair.
    "When my father didn't report back in a half hour, a deputy drove over to the house, where he found my dad spread out on the ground.
    After the deputy threw up, he managed to control himself long enough to radio for an ambulance. At that time, there weren't any other local police officers. The deputy's only option was to contact the Highway Patrol, but they said they couldn't get there for another half hour, so the deputy sucked up his nerve, drew his gun, and went into the house.
    "The wife was on the living room floor with her head shot off.
    Blood was everywhere. The deputy went into the kitchen. No one was there. He went into the master bedroom. No one. He went into a smaller bedroom--the boy's--and the window was open. The father must have heard the boy leaping out. What the searchers found the next morning made clear that the father chased his son across the road and into a field. Why did he act that way, do you suppose?"
    Page inhaled slowly. "A man like that blames his family for making him unhappy. Everything's their fault, and they need to be punished."
    "You've been taking psychology courses?"
    "Increases my pay grade."
    Costigan looked beyond Page, as if remembering the night he'd learned that his father had been shotgunned to death. His eyes refocused.
    "What you say makes sense. But here's another explanation. Some people are wired wrong. It's their nature to cause pain. They're so dark inside that maybe the only word to describe them is 'evil.'"
    "Yes, I've met people like that," Page said. "Too many."
    "The next morning, the searchers found the boy's corpse in weeds a half mile from the house. The father was lying next to him. After he'd killed his son, he'd put the shotgun in his mouth and pulled the trigger. Coyotes had gotten to them by the time the bodies were found."
    Page tasted a familiar sourness in his mouth. He was reminded of the car that had been hit by the drunk driver, of the five children and the woman inside, killed instantly. He thought of the drug dealer who'd shot his friend Bobby, just two days earlier.
    "I'm sorry about your father."
    "Not a day goes by that I don't remember him. I'll never be the man he was. But he wasn't perfect, and what happened that night proved it. He shouldn't have let it happen. What's the most dangerous situation any police officer faces?"
    "Family arguments."
    "Exactly. Because they're so emotional and unpredictable. After my father knocked, he should have stepped to the side, away from the door and the windows. Or better yet, he should have stayed by his car and used his bullhorn to order the husband to step outside. If the guy had come out with a shotgun, at least my father would have had a chance to defend himself. It didn't need to happen the way it did. But my father had a weak spot. He couldn't stand bullies." Costigan looked directly at Page. "Especially when they picked on women."
    "Okay," Page said. "I