“Maybe half of them, Detective Morgan,” he said. “We’ve been releasing them to parents.”

“Find me the boy who saw the gun,” Remy said.

The patrolman took off, sprinting out of the area in a crouched position.

My name is P. T. Marsh, and Mason Falls, Georgia, is my town. Lately we top out at around 130,000 souls. So we’re not so big that there’s more than two Walmarts in town. Then again, we’re not so tiny that it won’t make national news when a school shooting happens.

In the distance a hundred feet behind us, a white pop-up tent had been erected by patrol. A planning area. Farther back, in the visitor’s parking lot, a CNN van was unloading camera equipment, an unfortunate circumstance of being ninety minutes from Atlanta. There was always a CNN van on some highway nearby.

I tapped at the bullhorn by Remy’s side, and she explained how she’d tried to make contact with the gunman before I arrived.

“Patrol also called the cell numbers of both teachers held in the school,” she said. “No answer.”

“And Chief Senza?”

“He’s probably twenty minutes out,” Remy said. “Protocol is clear, though, P.T. Talk the shooter down. Make sure no one else gets injured or worse.”

I took this in, realizing the extra sensitivity with the chief’s daughter in play. Still, I’d overseen last year’s active shooter training, so I knew the statistics better than anyone else in the department. In seventy percent of these scenarios, the ordeal ends only when the gunman is confronted or killed by police or himself.

“You remember a D.A.R.E. talk we did here last year?” I asked.

Remy shook her head. We’d been partners for a year and a half. Slightly less if you counted the time this summer when she took a three-month shift working in County.

“The kids weren’t paying attention,” I reminded her. “So the teacher decided to take the class outside?”

“Yeah.” Remy nodded. A look of familiarity came to her face.

I motioned over the top of the one-story brick building where the shooter was. “Those pine trees to the right curve around back. There’s a maintenance shed, tucked under a hedge of ironwood.”

“What are you thinking?” my partner asked.

“I’m gonna circle back there,” I said. “See if I can get a different angle on this guy. Maybe climb up on the roof of that shed.”

I grabbed the Remington.

“You got your walkie?” Remy asked.

I looked down. It was clipped to my belt. “And my cell in case you want to stay off the radio.”

“If you get the shot . . .” Remy said.

“I thought we were trying to talk him down.”

“We are,” she said. “But if conditions change and you get a good look . . .”

Remy hesitated, her eyes searching mine. “Do you want me to go instead?” she asked.

I took off without answering, making a beeline back toward the police tent. When I was almost there, I ducked left into the forested area that ran between the school and State Route 903.