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behavior because of a woman he knew he'd never actually be with.
    He stuck his hands in his pockets and wondered what was wrong with himself. But just as he began ticking back through past lovers, his thoughts were shattered by a scream.
    It sounded like a girl but the voice was a man's. Brunelle knew a man screaming like a girl was bad. Maybe very bad.
    He ran in the direction of the scream, toward the grassy strip separating the casino parking lot from the tribe's administration building. He got there at the same time as two other casino patrons who'd also been in the parking lot.
    "Step back," Brunelle ordered as they reached the scene. The crime scene, he knew.
    A young man, maybe even a teenager, lay on the grass, eyes open and glassy. Large blotches, black in the parking lot lights, stained his shirt—one at his stomach, the other over his heart. Brunelle knelt down and checked for a pulse under the boy's 'NGB' neck tattoo. Nothing.
    "He's dead," Brunelle announced.
    "That's not the worst of it."
    Brunelle jerked his head up to see Freddy standing there, rain dripping from his hair and his chest heaving. He pointed at the victim.
    "That's Bobby Quilcene. Johnny's cousin."

Chapter 8
     
     
    An hour later, Brunelle and Freddy were still in the casino parking lot. They were both leaning against a cop car, its lights flashing against the back of their damp heads. Officers from the Tribal Police and the Pierce County Medical Examiner were still investigating the scene across the parking lot, the steady mist unrelenting in the dark.
    Brunelle looked at his watch. It was almost 1 a.m. "This still won't give us an excuse to be late, will it?"
    Freddy surrendered a tired laugh. "Nope. We'll be exhausted, but we better not be late."
    Brunelle nodded. "Well, hopefully they'll get to us soon."
    He was used to coming and going from crime scenes at his pleasure. But he didn't know these cops or these M.E.s and he wouldn't be prosecuting this murder. He was just a witness. A cold, tired, wet witness.
    Then he realized something.
    He turned to Freddy. "Hey, why were you even still around? You left a good half an hour before I did."
    "Eh?" Freddy looked over at him, then away again. He rubbed the back of his wet neck. "Oh, I was just, um, sitting in my car. You know, talking on the phone with, uh, someone."
    "Oh," Brunelle nodded. He didn't ask who. Maybe Freddy had heard him shout 'Hi' from Kat after all.
    A few quiet minutes later a patrol officer finally made his way over to them. They'd already been separated once to give their initial verbal statements. This cop had some blank-lined statement forms in one hand and some pens in the other.
    "Thank you for your patience, sirs," the officer said. "If you could each fill out a written statement of what you saw, you can get going. Be sure to include a good phone number and address at the top of the form. You may get contacted by a detective."
    "Understood," Brunelle said as he took the form and a pen.
    He stepped around the back of the patrol car and sat on the bumper to fill out his statement. He was completely sober again so the only trouble he had writing was getting the ballpoint pen to start on the damp paper.
    'At approximately 2330 hours…'
    But then he overheard Freddy ask the officer to step to the front of the patrol car. Curious, Brunelle strained to hear and could just make out Freddy saying, "I'm sorry, officer, but like I told you before, I'm going to decline to make any statement."

Chapter 9
     
     
    "All rise!" commanded the bailiff as Judge LeClair entered the courtroom. "The Duwallup Tribal Court is now in session."
    Brunelle rose quickly from his seat at counsel table, despite the late night. The brick in his head was an unwelcome reminder that he was well past the age when he could stay up after one o'clock and feel no worse for wear the next day. Fatigue pressed down his back. Luckily, the hotel coffee had been strong.
    He had to at least pretend not to be tired.