“Your first name?”

“Constance. Who’re you?”

He showed her his police ID. She looked at it warily as he introduced himself. Most people, Duckworth thought, viewed his ID with some degree of alarm—cops at the door did not usually mean good news—but Constance Gaffney’s reaction struck him as more cautious.

“Is your husband home?” he asked.

“What’s this about?” she asked.

“If your husband is home I’d like to discuss it with both of you.”

She called out over her shoulder, “Albert? Albert!”

Moments later, Albert Gaffney appeared. Balding, also heavyset, broad enough in the shoulders to obliterate his wife when he edged in front of her.

“What’s going on?” he asked, loosening the tie around the collar of his white shirt. He took a quick glance at Duckworth and his ID and suddenly looked as though he had a bad taste in his mouth.

“What’s this all about?”

“It’s about your son,” Duckworth said, adding, “Brian.”

“What’s happened to him?” Constance asked, stepping aside to let the detective into their home.

“He’s okay,” Duckworth said quickly. “He’s at PFG for some tests.”

“Tests?” Albert said. “What’s happened?”

“He was . . . assaulted,” Duckworth said. “And possibly confined for a period of time.”

“What’s that mean?” the man asked. “Assaulted? Was he . . . I mean, did someone . . .”

Duckworth guessed what the man was trying to ask. “He was rendered unconscious and . . .”

How did one describe what had happened to Brian? It wasn’t enough to say he’d been knocked out and tattooed. It was worse than that. One had to see him to fully comprehend the crime that had been committed against him. Duckworth supposed he could show them the photos on his phone, but somehow that didn’t seem appropriate.

“The best thing to do would be to go see him,” he said.

“For God’s sake, Albert, get your keys,” Constance Gaffney said. She shot him a stern look. “I hope you’re happy.”

Albert started to say something, but the look in her eyes told him to keep whatever it was to himself. Instead, he turned to Duckworth.

“Who did it?” he asked. “Who hurt my son?”

“The matter’s under investigation,” Duckworth said. “I have a question for you.”

Albert waited.

“Do you know anyone named Sean? Someone with a possible connection to your son or your family?”

“Sean?” Brian Gaffney’s father asked. “Is that who did it?”

Duckworth shook his head. “No. Does the name ring any bells?”

“No,” said Albert. He glanced at his wife, then asked, “Did this happen at his apartment? At his place?”

“No,” Duckworth said. “Brian says it began at a bar. At Knight’s.”

Albert said to Constance, with a hint of vindication in his voice, “You see? It could have happened anyway. He went there even when he still lived with us.”

But something in her face said she was still blaming him for something. “I’m getting my purse,” she said.

“Keys,” Albert said, patting his front pockets. “Where the hell are my keys?”