“Out of the furnace and into the fire,” Abe said. “You and Rem ready?”

“Like riding a bike,” I said.

We pulled into Harrington’s neighborhood, and media vans clogged the residential street. I flicked on the portable police light that Abe kept on the dash of his old Lexus.

“Obviously you’re not the only one who knows this guy’s address, Kaplan,” I said.

Abe laid on the horn, and the folks in the street separated, revealing two squad cars trying to handle crowd control.

I’m always surprised with the atmosphere after a shooting. Concern and panic fade when a bad man with a gun is taken down, and the succeeding hours are often filled with a sense of morbid jubilation. “Circus-like” is how Remy once described the mood.

We pulled into the driveway at 2944 Bluehaven and got out. Badged a couple journalists who were set up on Harrington’s lawn. The news guys acted giddy and pointed at the house like bookies examining a horse.

I pointed at their camera gear. “On the sidewalk or the parkway, guys,” I said. “Otherwise, I gotta get patrol to arrest you. Impound your equipment.”

Abe had found a house key in the gunman’s pocket at the school, and patrol had already cleared the home.

“How about a comment on the shooting, Marsh?” a reporter named Raymond Kirios from the Mason Falls Register asked. I ignored him, and Abe closed the front door behind us.

Inside the house, Abe flicked on the lights. The noise of the media was muffled, and Abe and I pulled our Glocks, just to be sure.

“Police,” I announced, always double-checking in a situation like this. “Anyone home?”

No response.

We stood in a tiled entryway. A few lights on inside. We’d been told Harrington was single and lived alone, and patrol had verified this with a neighbor before going room to room ten minutes ago.

To our left was a hallway that led to the bedrooms. Off to our right, we could see into the living room and kitchen, which were both empty.

The house was a two-bedroom ranch style. The first room faced onto the front lawn and was the master. A simple bedroom. Nothing on the dresser except for a digital clock and a black cradle for an iPhone. A set of golf clubs leaned against one corner, and the bed was unmade.

The second room was the spare, and the walls were lined in an old-timey wallpaper. In the closet, we saw women’s clothes. Two or three outfits in a small size. Two casual skirts and a blouse. Nothing else.

I flicked the label on one of the skirts and saw the words “Rebecca Taylor.” I wasn’t a fashion snob, but could guess they each fell in the range of three to four hundred dollars. Someone hip, with good taste, but not loaded.

Did Harrington have a girlfriend? A female roommate?

We heard a noise and moved through the living room toward the back of the house. Through a sliding door, I saw a dog scratching at the glass. He was a mixed breed. Part retriever and part husky. Maybe thirty-five pounds. Tan with a white stripe circling his neck.