In his left hand was a .38, so his right hand was free to smack at the right side of his head.

“Stupid, stupid, stupid,” he said.

About eight feet away, in the northeast corner of the room, three girls in plaid uniform skirts and white blouses sobbed violently.

“Why did I come here?” he muttered, shaking his head. “If it’s gone, it’s gone.”

“Why don’t you put down the gun,” the teacher said, her voice low and calm.

The man stopped pacing. “Don’t you tell me what to do.”

He put his free hand on her arm, and she froze. Looked down. He removed it.

The gunman’s head whipped around then, glancing out the window. “Did you see that?”

The female teacher squinted. Took a step toward the window.

“Something moved,” he said. “Out by the tree line.”

“Nothing moved,” she promised.

But he grabbed the teacher, pulling her body in front of his. As he held her, the forest was still.

“Get off of me.” She broke free of the man.

The girls started sobbing again, and their cries echoed through the room.

“Shut! Up!” the gunman screamed at the girls.

The teacher turned. Took a step toward her three most promising art students.

“Let’s stay nice and quiet,” she said to them, her voice suddenly soft and smooth. “We’ll get through this, but we need to be calm, okay?”

The girls stopped whimpering. One even managed a nod at Miss Borland.

Then the man turned to face them, his gun in hand.

That’s when they heard a cracking noise.

A single pop, like thunder.

7

Abe and I met in my office after Chief Senza left. We carved out what he and Merle would focus on and what Remy and I would pursue. We set a time in the afternoon for the four of us to regroup.

Then Remy marched in with her laptop and two coffees, and it felt like old times. The band before the breakup.

“All right,” I said. “We got the weapon, the car, and the dead teacher’s wife. That’s our morning.”

I made some calls to Mandelle Clearson at Atlanta PD, and Remy walked over to meet with Carlos Esqueveda, who ran the mod bay where Harrington’s Dodge Magnum had been towed.

Thirty minutes later I’d confirmed that Jed Harrington had bought the .38 three years ago at a place called Ammo and Mercantile, about a mile north of the Mason Falls city limits.

I knew that Mandelle would be speaking to the gun store directly, so I walked down to the precinct lobby. I wanted to run over to the mod garage and see Harrington’s car for at least a few minutes while Remy was still there.

As I hurried toward the lobby exit, Hope Duffy hailed me. Hope was the sergeant who managed the intake desk, and the area was full of gift baskets, wrapped in colored cellophane.

“You wanna tell me what to do with all these?” she asked.