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gun.
    Stay calm, stay professional. Do your job.
    The first room was the hardest. The top half of the closed door was glass but decorated with so many cutout pictures of bunnies and tulips that she couldn’t see inside. The lights were off as well, as in all the rooms in the school.
    Rainie slowly twisted the doorknob with her left hand. From the crouch position, she pushed the door open into the room. Shadows, long and gray, in the back of the room. Sunshine, bright and fierce, in the front. She rolled across the threshold and came up with her Glock held in the two-handed Weaver stance. Right. Left. Front. Back. Nothing.
    Rainie finally rose to her feet in the empty room. She turned on the lights and propped the door wide open to keep the premises exposed. And then she prepared for the next room.
    Bit by bit she worked her way down the hall. Then she was at the intersection, where bloody gauze still covered the floor and the dents on the bright blue lockers grew worse. She saw more blood splatters. A big dent on a bottom locker, where a body must have careened into it hard. Casings were scattered across the white-tiled floor as if someone had flung a handful down the hall.
    She could picture things now. The loud crack of gunshots, followed by the panicked screams of schoolchildren. Little girls and little boys streaming from classrooms as the fire alarm sounded; teachers begging them in shaking voices to remain calm. The chaos of bodies running for the front doors, pushing, shoving, tripping, falling. Blood in the halls.
    She took a deep breath, forced her pulse to slow.
    Stay professional, Rainie. Do your job.
    She checked out the fifth-grade classroom, then the sixth. Next the library, big and sweeping with endless rows of books. Nothing.
    Finally she was at the end of the hall, where shattered glass was strewn across the floor from the broken doors, where three bodies lay quiet and still.
    Rainie didn’t want to look at the victims, especially not the children. She understood that the sight would hurt her, scar her someplace deep, where even tough guys like her were vulnerable. She knew it would make her think of other times, too, after she had worked years to forget those scenes.
    But this was bigger than her. It had needs that had nothing to do with her own. It was about the rights of the victims and the needs of the parents outside, though she knew that from here on out nothing anyone did for three sets of parents would ever be enough.
    The first victim, a little girl, lay on her side. Rainie felt for a pulse, though Walt had already warned her and blood stained the entire front of the girl’s shirt. Rainie swallowed hard and moved on, trying not to disturb the scene.
    The second victim was also female. Looked approximately eight years old. She had also received multiple bullet wounds to the chest. She was lying just ahead of the first victim. Their arms stretched out toward each other, their fingers nearly touching. Had they been holding hands walking down the hall? Best friends giggling together? Rainie wanted to brush back the little girl’s hair. She wanted to whisper to her that it would be all right.
    Her vision blurred, tears burned hot in her eyes. She couldn’t afford that.
    Be professional. Move on.
    She noted positioning. She noted victimology. She crossed to the third body.
    Lying just outside the computer-lab door, this victim, also female, appeared to be a teacher. Three female fatalities—coincidence or plan? She had long dark hair and exotic features. She was also young, her smooth skin making her appear as if she were simply sleeping. Then Rainie noticed the small, neat bullet hole in her forehead.
    Small-caliber weapon, Rainie thought. Probably a .22. Christ, the teacher didn’t look a day older than herself. Late twenties maybe. Early thirties. No wedding band, but beautiful enough that you had to think some man would be sitting alone tonight, holding her picture with shaking hands while trying