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the boy’s tenderhearted classmates, “but for who they are deep down.” In the course of the vigil, five of them were shot.
    Remembering that he had a passenger who needed cheering up, he pointed to a sign on a park bench by the courthouse: ARRESTED? CALL ATTORNEY A. STINE . “Think I should advertise on a park bench?”
    â€œThe only problem is when somebody sits, your ad disappears.”
    They circled the police station, an angular stucco building with rose-colored pillars and a pocket park shaded by tall trees through which songbirds darted.
    â€œClematis Street,” he announced, doing his best to fill up the silence. “This is where the nightspots are. Every Thursday from six to nine there’s live music outside. It’s called Clematis by Night. I entertain on the balalaika.” He glanced at her. “Just kidding.”
    They parked and walked past a secured area whose iron gate was being opened to allow a police cruiser to drive through. In the car’s backseat sat a teenager whose life was about to change track. His expression was both cocky and fatalistic, as if he’d always known it would come to this. “They come off an assembly line,” remarked Smoker. “All day long, the same model.”
    In front of the building’s main entrance was a bronze statue of a policeman bending down and comforting a child. Inside, the desk marked RECORDS was protected by bulletproof glass.
    â€œTara Stevens here to see Detective Ingersoll,” said Smoker.
    The woman behind the glass made a call and said, “Take the elevator to the second floor.”
    Tara turned to see if Smoker was coming with her. He shook his head and gave her an encouraging smile.
    The second floor had the same kind of office to report to, with bulletproof glass to protect the woman behind it.
    A man came out and introduced himself as Detective Ingersoll. He wasn’t as big as Smoker, but he was very black and solid as cast iron. I’ve got a pair of rhinoceroses on my side, she thought.
    He unlocked the door with his ID and led her in. “I hear you had a rough time,” he said gently.
    â€œI guess you see worse.”
    â€œI see only worse.”
    He felt her effort to stay calm and sensed she would be a good witness. Win or lose, she’d bring clarity to the job. His days were made of disappointments and chaos, but maybe today he’d be lucky, and get two for the price of one. “You’ll be looking at photos,” he explained. “We don’t do live lineups anymore.”
    Thank God, she thought. I won’t have to look into those living eyes with their mad mixed messages.
    He took her past a grid of cubicles into an interview room along the wall.
    â€œGround rules first.” He gave her a form to sign that said she was aware that the person who committed the crime might not be in the lineup, that she shouldn’t ask for guidance, that the suspects in the photos would all have similar features and hair but hairstyles could change . . .
    Now he handed her the lineup, a sheet of paper with six faces on it.
    Blood rushed to her head.
    She dropped the paper as if it were on fire.
    All of them were him.
    â€œTake your time,” said Ingersoll. “They’re not going anywhere.”
    She forced herself to look closely at each shaven head, each surly face, and at last said, “He’s not here.”
    â€œAre you sure?”
    She took a deep breath and let it out. “I’m sure.”
    â€œYou reacted as if—”
    â€œThat’s because I keep seeing him everywhere. But I was mistaken. He isn’t any of these men.”
    She signed a statement saying she was unable to identify the subject, then studied the six faces again, wondering which one had cut the woman’s throat.
    â€œSecond thoughts?” asked Ingersoll hopefully.
    â€œThe murderer you’ve caught is one of these guys,