“I’m guessing this fellow came over to have a few words with you,” Jacobi went on. “What did he say? ‘You killed my son’? My little boy is dead because of you’? Maybe he clocked you with that vase. Is that what set you off?”

“I want a doctor,” Garza said thickly. “I’m in a lot of pain, and I demand to see a doctor right now.”

“Sure,” I said. “No problem. But you ought to know that we found blood on the soles of Maureen’s shoes,” I said, lying my face off.

“As soon as the DA gets here, Maureen is going to talk about what went down at your house this morning. She’s going to say how she walked in on you doing a murder. She’ll plead to accessory after the fact and testify for the prosecution, Dennis.

“She’ll get a year or two in minimum security, and you’ll get the needle. Is that what you want?

“Or do you want to tell us now how you acted in self-defense. Because if you talk to us now, you’re cooperating. And that’s your best chance to save your sorry life.”

“Is that right?” Garza croaked.

“Yeah. That’s right, asshole.”

I thought about Martin Sweet, that bereaved father crying out to me in agony, This is fucked-up! I want to kill someone, Lieutenant!

Dennis Garza had beaten him to it.

“’Scuse me,” Garza gurgled. He stood up and looked around.

I was about to grab him by his collar and drag him back to his chair, when he went down on his knees and barfed into the trash can.

Long, retching moments later, he lifted his gigantic head.

“I want my lawyer,” Garza said.

Jacobi and I exchanged disgusted looks.

The interrogation was over.

I stood up, shoving my chair away from the table. It snagged on the table leg, so I pulled at the chair, wrestling with it noisily, banging it until all four legs were on the ground.

I knew my anger was running away with me, because I didn’t care who was watching from behind the glass.

I leaned forward, hands on my knees, stuck my face right up to Garza’s stinking snout and gave him everything I had left.

“I knew that man you stabbed and slashed to death, you murdering piece of shit. We talked right after his little boy died of a broken arm.

“Did you see that child when he checked into the ER? A cute little guy. Weighed about fifty pounds. He was found dead with a pair of buttons on his eyes.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Garza said.

“He doesn’t know anything,” I said to Jacobi as Garza stood up, walked weakly to the chair, hands cuffed in front of him.