“He can’t help you, son.”

“What happened to Tyra?”

The captain leaned back, considering. “What would you like to know?”

“How she died and why you think I’m the one who killed her.”

The captain drummed his fingers, then shrugged. “Some days ago, you rented a room from Charles Spellman.”

“Yeah, 1019 Water Street. It’s no secret.”

“Your room is on the second floor on the northwest side.”

“It is.”

“And you’re still the registered tenant.”

“What’s your point?”

Captain Martin didn’t respond. Instead, he placed three evidence bags on the table, each holding a Polaroid photograph. He fanned them out, and Jason paled. He’d known more blood and death than most, but that was another life in a different world. “That’s Tyra?”

“It is.”

Jason struggled to imagine it, but the shape of her was right. The hair. The cloudy eye. “I would never hurt Tyra. Not like that.”

“And yet…” The captain laced his fingers on the table, leaning close. “When we searched the Water Street house this morning, we found those photographs in your room, beneath your pillow, in fact.”

“I did not kill Tyra Norris.”

“We found this as well.” The captain produced a fourth evidence bag. In it was a scalpel, mirror-sharp and stained blackish red. “That’s Tyra’s blood on the blade. So you see … Murder weapon. Photographs.” The cop leaned back this time, sad but certain. “If there are mitigating circumstances, something from the war, something you think I should know about…”

Jason reached for the photos, but the chain was too short.

“Nothing?” the cop asked.

“No.” Jason could barely speak. “Nothing.”

“I’m sorry, son.” The cop gathered up the evidence, and stood. “I’m sorry for Tyra Norris, for her family, and for yours. It’s a bad case, truly horrible. That being said, you’re still your father’s son. If you think of something you’d like to say, either to him or in mitigation, I will always be willing to listen.”

Saying goodbye to Becky was not an easy thing to do. We were at the cars. She was standing close. “Why sophomore year?” I asked. “Why then? Why me?”

“You really don’t know?”

I shook my head.

“Math class, first day.” Her eyes twinkled as she spoke. “Mrs. Ziegler called me to the board to work a problem. You remember?”

“What I remember is how much you’d changed over the summer.”

“Yeah, you and every boy in school. The legs. The boobs. But that first day in math class, you were the only one who looked at my face. You watched my face and you nodded and you smiled.”

“I promise, I was no saint.” Becky blushed, and dug a toe into the grass. “You seemed confident, though. Very self-assured.”