“Not truth.” Ehrhart was incensed.

“Sure as hell is, ma’am.”

“Where were you last night?” she demanded to know.

“Right here, practicing.” A last-second shot from half court hit the stands. “I didn’t go to the cemetery and have never been inside that cemetery.”

He trotted after the ball again and started spinning it on his middle finger.

Ehrhart misinterpreted. “Are you giving to me an obscenity gesture?”

The ball wobbled off. Feeley tried again. He tossed it around his back and missed.

“Rats,” he said.

“I fine you most lacking in respect,” Ehrhart said loudly and with emotion. “And you can alibi from then on and in the end, what comes and goes around!”

“Look, ma’am.” Feeley tucked the ball under his arm. “I had nothing to do with the statue. But I sure do intend to go take a peek.”

Many people in the Richmond area had decided the same thing. Clay Kitchen had never seen such a solid line of cars without headlights on. He had never in his twenty-seven years of faithful service observed such unbecoming behavior.

People were cheerful. They had rolled windows down and were enjoying the premature spring weather. They were playing rock & roll, jazz and rap.

Kitchen and West zipped along in the truck, avoiding the flow of traffic by entering the crime scene from Lee Avenue. West looked out the window, rather amazed by the interest. When the statue came in view she almost lost her proper police decorum. She almost said fucking unbelievable.

“Stop right here,” she said to Kitchen. “I don’t want people seeing me getting out of your truck.”

Kitchen completely understood. West was here in plain clothes and would not tell him why, but he was quite a reader. He knew what was going on. Criminals often returned to the scene of the crime, especially if they were pyromaniacs or wanted to apologize or had forgotten to take a souvenir. Kitchen had talked to police when they patrolled the cemetery on slow days. Kitchen had heard the stories.

He remembered the man who stabbed his wife almost a thousand times and slept with her body for days, bringing her breakfast in bed, watching TV with her, talking about the good times. Of course, that really wasn’t the same thing as returning to the scene since he’d never left it, Kitchen supposed. He did know for a fact that up north a few years back, a woman ground up her husband in a wood chipper and came back several days later to burn up his pieces in the backyard. A neighbor apparently got suspicious.

The crowd was pressing too close to the statue and threatened any moment to duck under or even break the crime-scene tape. West got on her radio and requested backups. There was a near riot situation at the cemetery, hundreds of people. Many of them had been drinking and probably still were.

“Three,” Communications Officer Patty Passman came back. “Is this 10-18?”

West checked her annoyance. People pushed against her. Passman was always questioning West’s calls, and now she had the nerve to ask if the situation was urgent. No, why don’t you get around to it when you can, West felt like saying. After I’ve been stampeded.