As we passed, I looked out the window. They laid his wet corpse down in the grass, and his flesh was the white of a fish’s underbelly. His dark hair plastered his face, and his eyes were closed tight, his forehead dented.

If you didn’t notice the dent in his forehead, he looked like he was sleeping. He looked at peace. He looked about fourteen years old.

“Well,” Jefferson said as he came back into the interrogation room, “we have some bad news for you, Mr. Kenzie.”

My head was throbbing so hard I was sure a band of majorettes had taken up residence in my skull and the inside of my mouth felt like sunbaked leather. I couldn’t move my left arm, wouldn’t have been able to even if the bandages had permitted it, and the cuts on my face and head had caked and swelled.

“How’s that?” I managed.

Jefferson dropped a manila folder on the table between us and removed his suit jacket and placed it over the back of his chair before he took a seat.

“This Mr. Graham Clifton—what’d you call him back on the bridge—the Weeble?”

I nodded.

He smiled. “I like that. Well, the Weeble had three bullets in him. All from your gun. The first entered his back and came out through his right breast.”

I said, “I told you I fired into the car while it was moving. I thought I hit something.”

“And you did,” he said. “Then you shot him twice as he came out of the car, yeah, yeah. Anyway, that’s not the bad news. The bad news is you told me this Weeble guy, he worked for a Trevor Stone of Marblehead, Massachusetts?”

I nodded.

He looked at me and shook his head slowly.

“Wait a minute,” I said.

“Mr. Clifton was employed by Bullock Industries, a research and development consulting firm located in Buckhead.”

“Buckhead?” I said.

He nodded. “Atlanta. Georgia. Mr. Clifton, as far as we know, never set foot in Boston.”

“Bullshit,” I said.

“’Fraid not. I spoke to his landlord, his boss in Atlanta, his neighbors.”

“His neighbors,” I said.

“Yeah. You know what neighbors are, don’t you? The people who live beside you. See you every day, nod hello. Well there’s a whole bunch of these neighbor types in Buckhead, who swear they saw Mr. Clifton just about every day for the last ten years in Atlanta.”

“And Mr. Cushing?” I said as the majorettes in my head started banging their cymbals together.