I glanced at the pile. Hope was blond and late forties, with the body of a volleyball player. “Most of them are from middle school parents and addressed to you,” she said.

It felt morbid to accept a gift for taking a man’s life, even if it saved the lives of students.

“I dunno,” I said. “Patrolmen’s families, maybe? You know who’s crushing it on the day shift. Why don’t you give them out to your favorite cops.”

“Will do, Detective,” Hope said, and I moved past the pile and into the crisp September air.

The mechanical mod yard was located around the back side of the same building the precinct was in, but it was faster to walk outside and around the corner than navigate the elevators and hallways that led through the bowels of the hall of justice.

As I turned the corner, I saw the place was hopping with activity.

The two outside bays had black and whites in them, each jacked up into the air. A mechanic worked under the body of the cruiser on the far left, while a second guy installed a new battering ram on the black and white at the right.

In the center spot was Harrington’s black 2008 Dodge Magnum, the only vehicle not up on a lift.

Remy was gloved up and leaning over the open hatchback of the station wagon. Beside her stood Carlos Esqueveda, in a blue one-piece canvas jumpsuit.

Carlos had shoulder-length dark hair that was wrapped in a thick red rubber band, and he sported a beard that must’ve taken two months to grow.

“Jesus,” I said. I hadn’t seen him since June. “You look like a goddamn terrorist.”

Carlos grinned. “Hey, man, don’t be racially profiling me. My people have stuck to illegal immigration and drug trafficking for a century. We don’t do bombs. Keep us in our lane, okay?”

I smiled. Carlos and I went back and forth like this all the time.

“So what’ve we got?” I asked Remy.

My partner offered a frustrated look that I knew well. “More like what we don’t,” she said.

“There’s no notes planning any school shooting,” Carlos said.

“No other firearms in the car,” Remy jumped in.

“And no extra ammo in the car for the .38 he was carrying,” Carlos added.

“Huh.” I snorted, not understanding the logic of Jed Harrington bringing a loaded .38 Special into a school with no additional ammo, either with him or in the car.

“A buck knife,” Carlos offered, lifting the object up. “Six-inch clip blade. Steel.”

“Well, he didn’t bring that with him onto campus,” I said.

“I’ll keep looking,” Carlos said. “But preliminarily, I can tell you that Jed Harrington recently went to a Waffle House, from the coffee cup in the car. And that he wore a size large, from the clothes in his gym bag in the back.”

I stared around. The bay smelled like someone had spilled a gallon of motor oil inside the place. “That’s it?” I asked.