We had a few extra minutes to go into McDonald’s for their alleged pancakes. I pay lip service to hating McDonald’s, but the pancakes were good and so was the coffee. And God, it was so warm in there. The windows were steamed up. The place was full of burly men in bulky jackets, mostly in camo patterns. They all wore big boots and had freshly shaved faces. Some of them would be going to work out at the crime scene, and some of them would be going about their usual business. Even the presence of death wouldn’t stop life as usual in Doraville. That was a comforting thought, if one I’d had about a million times before. A job like mine makes you a big “river of life” person.

I hated to leave the homey atmosphere of McDonald’s—okay, I guess it’s pretty bad if you think McDonald’s is homey—for the unpleasant interview ahead. But we wanted to be on time, and we hoped they would let us leave town after. Tolliver had left our stuff at the cabin, though. He said it wouldn’t take long to swing back by and throw our stuff into the suitcases if we were allowed to leave. And we’d have to straighten up the cabin a little and return the key.

We ran the gauntlet of the press since we had to park in front that day. There wasn’t a friendly officer at the gate to the rear parking lot to let us through, and we hadn’t thought about calling ahead. The ranks of the fourth estate seemed a little thin today, and I wondered if the forensic people were still digging at the barn. I got through the remaining light crowd with a few “No comment” s, and they didn’t dare follow us into the station.

When we were settled at the table in a conference room, carefully nursing our extra cups of coffee we’d brought with us, we had quite a little wait. Spread out on the table was a big map marked “Don Davey Property.” The drawing was liberally marked up. From where we sat, Tolliver had a hard time reading the print, but I gave him a superior sneer and read the labels.