Okay. Whatever you have.

It's going to be hotter than hell up there. The AC's off.

I appreciate this, Lou. Thanks. You, too, Starkey.

Poitras stripped off his jacket, and we followed him up.

Stepping into the house was like walking into a furnace. A ratty overstuffed chair had been pushed against a threadbare couch and a coffee table. Swatches of cloth had been cut from the arms and the back of the chair, leaving straw-colored batting bright against stained fabric. The stains were probably blood. Light switches, door jambs and the inside front doorknob were spotted with black smudges from fingerprint kits. More black was smudged on the telephone and coffee table. Starkey immediately took off her jacket, and Poitras rolled up his sleeves.

Starkey said, Bleh. This smell.

Tell him what you found.

Starkey glanced at me as if she wasn't sure how to start.

You knew this guy, huh?

I didn't know him. I worked for his lawyer.

Just being asked if I knew him seemed to imply we were friends, and left me feeling resentful.

Poitras said, Describe the scene, for Christ's sake. I want to get out of here.

Starkey moved to the center of the room, indicating an empty spot on the floor.

The chair was here, not over by the couch. Once the body was out, the SID guys moved things around. He was here in the chair, slumped back, gun in his right hand

She held out her right hand with the palm up, showing me.

a Taurus .32 revolver.

The chair was in the middle of the floor?

Yeah. Facing the television. A bottle of Seagram's was on the floor by the chair, so he had probably been hitting it. As soon as Bobby saw the guy he said that stiff's been here a week. It was a mess, man.

How many shots fired?

Poitras laughed, and moved closer to the door.

You think he had to reload?

Starkey said, One spent, up through the bottom of his chin. Wasn't much blood. A little on the floor here and up on the ceiling

She indicated an irregular stain on the floor, then a spot the size of a quarter on the ceiling. It looked like a roach.

Poitras spoke from the doorway. Sweat had beaded on his forehead and was running down his cheeks.

The coroner investigator said everything about the body, the gun, and the splatter patterns was consistent with a self-inflicted wound. We haven't seen the final report, but that's what he told them here at the scene.

Starkey nodded along with him, but said nothing. I tried to imagine Lionel Byrd slumped in the chair, but his image was formless and grey. I couldn't remember what Byrd looked like. The only time I had seen him was on a videotape of his confession to the police.

I considered the neighboring houses. From the front door, I saw the roof of the black-and-white and the houses across the way. A woman was standing in a window across the street, looking down at the police car. Safe in her air-conditioning.