“Yes, sir!” Shaw agreed fervently. I was laughing so hard I almost missed his last few words: “If you say so, sir.”

The video went black for a second, and when it resumed, I was looking at a completely different scene. Someone had edited at least two segments together. This second one also was taped from another source; this original source appeared to be a monitor. This image had been recorded by a night-vision camera, so it washed out green with some hint of other colors. It was in a fixed position, and I had no idea where it was set up. I was looking at a circa 1950s suburban house. Locked up tight. Foliage in front partially covered the front windows. It looked like there might be lights on inside, but I couldn’t be certain; it could just as easily have been a reflection. There was no movement outside.

There was no sound. I checked the sound level to confirm that. No sound.

I recognized the house. I’d seen it on Zillow. Stratford Road. For several more seconds nothing happened. It could have been a photograph. Suddenly wisps of smoke burst from the front and side of the house. It took me another few seconds to realize bullets were smashing into brick and stucco. It had been more than a decade since I’d seen this same thing for myself, but I had no doubt that’s what it was. The rate of fire increased. All the windows were shattered, and a shutter fell off.

It was tough to watch. I looked around the office. Several people were working at desks, a small group was in conversation around the Keurig, and Howie was in his office, feet up on his desk, talking on the phone. Just a normal evening. And I was sitting there watching a house being blown to bits, knowing the eight people inside were being murdered.

The gunfire grew in intensity, reaching a crescendo; an explosion blew the front porch and door off the house. I didn’t see any indication of return fire, although it would have had the impact of a snowflake in a blizzard. In a corner of the screen I saw two men pouring fire into the house as they moved toward it.

Another explosion. Then another. Most of the house lifted off the ground, then slammed into a cloud of smoke. When that smoke dissipated, all that was left was debris. I couldn’t tell what type of munition had been fired, but it had to be more powerful than a mortar. Had to be. It could have been fired from a chopper, but it felt like ground fire. A Bradley, I guessed. I shook my head in wonder. A Bradley firing at a house on American soil. Wow.

Two more shells ripped into the pyre, taking out the remnants of a wall and the base of the chimney. The firing ebbed and gradually ended. Flames and black smoke rose from the rubble. No one was visible near the house. For several more seconds everything was quiet. Then boom! A secondary explosion sent bits of house hurtling toward the camera. It might have been caused by a stored pile of ammunition or a ruptured gas line. Whatever it was sent a towering needle of flame and thick smoke into the sky.