“Damn straight. You know who needs lawyers?”

“Who?”

“Criminals. Go ahead, fire away.”

“Before we begin, can I get you anything to eat or drink?”

“Yeah, get my ass some nachos.”

“I’m afraid we’re limited to whatever’s left in the vending machine.”

“Figures. Just ask what you got to ask. I got things to do.” Booker leaned his chair back and planted a foot on the table. “You don’t mind if I get comfortable, do you?”

Curtis shrugged. “Go right ahead. Nice sneakers, by the way.”

“Yeah, thanks.”

“Shame they got so muddy.”

Booker peered down at his Nikes. His brow creased. He brought his foot down to the floor. “It’s all this damn rain, you know?”

Curtis nodded. “Tell me about it. Mind if I ask what’s wrong with your face?”

Booker touched his swollen cheek. “Bee sting. Got me in the tool shed.”

“Looks to me like it got you on the face.” The joke fell by the wayside. Curtis continued. “Would you mind telling me where you were between the hours of seven p.m. Friday evening and six a.m. on Saturday?”

Booker tapped a finger on his lips. “Let’s see, Friday night . . .” He snapped. “Oh, I was at my friend’s house. Dougie Scagnetti. We all were.”

“All?”

“Yeah, the football team. The Badgers. I’m one of the captains, you know? Gotta keep my boys in line, make sure they’re not out causing trouble during the season.” He leaned back, clasped his hands behind his head. “Yeah, we were all over at Dougie’s playing Nintendo. Ice Hockey, I think it was. We ordered pizza and kept a receipt.”

“You always keep a receipt when you order pizza?”

“Sure. You know, taxes and whatnot.”

“Of course.” Curtis opened the file folder and thumbed through a few sheets for effect. “Are you aware of the bus accident Friday night involving the Killington High Jackrabbits?”

“Yep. Saw it in the paper. Damn shame what happened to those boys. So young, so innocent. What’s this world coming to when a bus driver is allowed to drive like a damn maniac with young people in his care?”

“And I assume you are also aware of the attack on Cole Logan at his residence on Friday morning? It’s been in the papers as well.”

Booker rubbed at his temples. “Logan … Logan . . .” He snapped his fingers again. “Oh, sure, quarterback, right? Didn’t I hear something about his fingers being cut off with a Boy Scout hatchet? Damn, it’s a violent world we live in. I’ll tell you what they should—”

“Hatchet?”

“Huh?”

“You said his fingers were cut with a hatchet. A Boy Scout hatchet.”

“Well, weren’t they? I mean, that’s what I heard.”

“Interesting. I didn’t know we had officially released the means by which Mr. Logan’s fingers were severed.”

“Say again?”