She raised the pistol slightly. The revolver cracked. Agony zinged in his knee. His leg buckled. Crying out, he hit the ground hard. Dizzy with shock and pain, he clutched his knee, glanced down, saw blood between his fingers. “But you’re … you can’t…”

The pain took his breath. He couldn’t speak. He couldn’t tell her she was a ghost and ghosts didn’t need guns.

Another shot snapped through the air. Pain exploded in his other knee. He screamed and then flopped around in the mud like a hooked fish. “Don’t,” he panted. “Dear God, please don’t.”

He tried to scream for help, but the sound that squeezed through his lips was the howl of a wounded dog. He lay on his side, wheezing, and looked up at her. “You’re not a ghost,” he croaked.

Rope in hand, she started toward him, a smile curving her mouth.

*   *   *

When you spend the entirety of your professional life in law enforcement, there are certain things you come to know. I’ve handled my share of firearms over the years, both handguns and rifles, and I know firsthand that without practice, good marksmanship is tough to come by—even by police officers. Half the cops I know couldn’t hit the broadside of a barn, especially in a high-adrenaline or shoot-from-the-hip type of scenario.

I also know that the targeting of the genitalia in the commission of a crime speaks to some kind of symbolism. I’ve seen it done in gangland murders in which some thug wants to make a point. But I’ve also seen it in revenge crimes involving sexual assault. The question in the forefront of my mind is this: Did Michaels’s killer target his genitalia, or was he simply a bad shot?

I enter the reception area to find half a dozen pails of different shapes and sizes on the floor between the reception area and the coffee station. My first-shift dispatcher, Lois Monroe, is in the hall with her headset clamped over her ears, a mop in hand. A steady drip from the ceiling plunks into an old paint can, keeping perfect time with a funky Linkin Park number on the radio.

“Be careful where you walk, Chief.” Propping the mop against the wall, she strides to the reception desk and plucks messages from my slot. “I ran out of buckets an hour ago.”

I look at the menagerie of containers set out to catch the deluge and I try not to laugh, because it’s a hell of a lot more likely that I’ll get a rash of excuses from the town council as opposed to a new roof.

“Call everyone and tell them there’s a briefing in half an hour,” I tell her.

She arches a brow. “Productive day so far?”