The adrenaline surged in my system, and the sound of an eastern kingbird chirping in the nearby trees was crisp. My hands shook for what must’ve been five minutes.

When I got out front, three ambulances were pulled onto the lawn beside the cruisers. I sat on the back lip of one of them, a tech in her twenties running me through a basic exam.

An EMT walked over, a kit in hand to draw blood.

“We can do this here or at the hospital,” the guy said. This was standard practice in an officer-involved shooting. My blood would go to toxicology, where they’d examine it for alcohol or drugs. Anything that could’ve impaired my judgment when I took that shot.

“Here’s fine,” I said, and let him get started.

Chief Senza walked over during the exam. He had been at a hearing in court and was wearing his formal blues.

“How you feeling, Marsh?”

I would go to psych tomorrow. A new requirement in Mason Falls. Two visits minimum when you discharge a firearm in the line of duty.

“I’m okay,” I said.

Senza was white and had the wide chest of an S.E.C. lineman. Which he was, twenty-five years ago at Auburn. He looked a little piqued, a natural response for a man who’d probably imagined the worst about his daughter thirty minutes earlier.

“Fuller said not to talk to anyone,” I said.

“Well, I’m not anyone,” the chief answered. He motioned at the next bus over. “I just spoke with the art teacher, Miss Borland. She said that one minute Harrington had a gun at her throat. The next moment he turned to shoot the kids and was on the ground.”

I nodded at Senza, because this was true, regardless of what Governor Monroe had asked.

The boss stared at me. “How this ended,” he said, “with no kids hurt. My family thanks you, Marsh. My ex-wife, who never thanks anyone . . . she already texted to thank you.”

Before I could respond, Remy came over, along with the other two detectives who handle homicide in Mason Falls: Abe Kaplan and Merle Berry.

Abe had been my partner before Remy. A no-nonsense cop who was like a brother to me. Merle is Abe’s partner: an older, heavyset guy who needed to retire five years ago. Merle wore a gray suit, and his hair was nuclear white around the temples. A handful of cookie crumbs were stuck to his suit jacket.

“You okay, podna?” Abe asked, slipping into the diction of his youth from back home in Louisiana.

I nodded, and Merle hiked up his dress pants with one hand. He glared at the paramedic, who was done with the blood test, holding a stare until the kid walked away.

Abe had been in the same courtroom as the chief and sported a two-piece suit. He was half Black and half Russian Jew and had broad shoulders and curly hair that grew funny in places.

Abe glanced at me, Remy, and Merle. “It might not be the perfect time,” he said. “But we’re all here, so can we talk about who’s covering what? With the amount of interviews to do and 911 calls that students made, we’re gonna be stretched pretty thin.”