Tomasetti chooses a booth at the rear. Big Head Todd and the Monsters belt out their classic ballad “Bittersweet” as I slide in across from him. Trying not to fidget, I catch McNarie’s eye and motion him our way.

“Nice,” Tomasetti comments. “You know the bartender.”

“Small town. Everyone knows everyone.”

“Uh-huh.”

The big man crosses to us and puts his hands on his hips. “Every time I see you two together I know there’s some serious shit going down.” He’s got a full beard that hangs off his chin like a wool sock. Matching white brows ride low over red-rimmed eyes. “You know who did it yet?”

“We’re working on a couple of angles,” I reply.

“Bad medicine, killing a whole family like that.” He shakes his head. “And Amish, too. Kids. Just can’t see it.”

“You hear anything, McNarie?”

“Not a goddamn thing. People are fuckin’ scared, locking their doors.” He glances back at the bar where a woman clad in denim waits for service. “You want the usual, Chief?”

I nod, embarrassed by the fact that I spend enough time in here to have a usual.

McNarie shifts a heavy-lidded gaze to John. “What about you?”

Tomasetti has the gall to look amused. “I’ll have whatever she’s having.”

The barkeep hustles away. Tomasetti smiles at me. “The usual, huh? You’re busted.”

I look at him. Really look at him for the first time since he stepped into my office a few hours ago. I’ve known him for ten months now, and John Tomasetti has always been a little rough around the edges. But his face is more angular than usual. I know he’s forty-two years old—eleven years older than me—but he looks even older. His eyes have seen a lot of things, and it shows in a way that has nothing to do with age. I see so much in his face, sometimes it’s painful. Sometimes he’s downright scary to look at.

To say that he has issues would be an understatement. I know about some of his demons. Most he won’t talk about. Like the night a drug dealer by the name of Con Vespian tortured his wife and two little girls, then burned them alive. A lot of people wouldn’t have survived that kind of loss. Tomasetti did; he still breathes and eats and walks and sleeps. But there’s living, and then there’s merely existing. I think Tomasetti falls into the latter group. I know he spends a great deal of time trying to claw his way out of some deep, dark hole.