The autopsy is why I’m the designated suicide cop, simple as that. Nobody wants to see a fellow officer on the slab, whether you knew him or not. Hedges could spread the burden around, but he chooses to let it rest on his least favorite, no doubt thinking this will motivate better performance. In my case, it only seems to make things worse.

Bridger waits until my arrival to begin work, starting with some observations about the state of the body and the visible wounds. By the time we reach the Y-incision, I’ve tuned out, retreating a few steps, letting the soft-focus blinkers fall over my eyes. Organs are transferred to various stainless-steel vessels for weighing, samples are taken. The process is methodical, one I’ve witnessed so many times over the years I have actually lost count, something I never would have imagined when I first joined the unit.

Toxicology results don’t come back overnight. The preliminary reports on the Morales shooting were exceptional, not just for their superfluousness but for their speed. As much as I’d like to know by tomorrow morning whether Thomson was coked up when he pulled the trigger – assuming he pulled it – I don’t make a fuss when Bridger says “as soon as possible.” There’s no doubt, after all, about the cause of death.

He follows me outside after stripping down to his scrubs. Out on the curb, we watch the thunderheads roll by and Bridger lights up a cigarette, quickly generating a cloud cover of his own. We’re silent awhile, because we have to be. Jaded as we are under the professional veneer, the fact is we’ve just finished cutting someone up, and that’s not the best way to initiate conversation.

Bridger stubs the butt out in an ashtray near the side exit, then returns to the vigil.

“There’s a storm coming,” he says. “That’s what they’re saying on the news.”

I glance at the sky. “Looks like.”

We fall silent again. I can sense him working up to something. “I know you pretty well,” he says.

I nod in agreement.

“There’s nothing on the scene to suggest he didn’t kill himself?”

I shake my head.

“But you don’t think he did it.”

“No, I don’t.”

He ponders this, scrubbing his sole against the pavement. “All right, well here’s something. It isn’t much, but since you’re thinking along these lines…”

My ears perk up. “What have you got?”

“The trajectory of the bullet. The entrance is low, right by the ear, and the exit is high, almost the top of the head. So the gun would have been held like this.” He puts his index finger against his temple, adjusting the angle to roughly forty-five degrees. “If you wanted to be sure, though, you wouldn’t hold the gun at an angle like that. You’d be afraid of ending up a vegetable instead of dead.”

“If you put the muzzle right under your chin and fire straight up, you’re good to go.”

“Right,” he says, adjusting his finger accordingly. “That’s what I’d expect. Or maybe you’d hold it sideways right at the center of the head, so you know the bullet’s going straight through.”

“So it doesn’t look consistent with a self-inflicted wound?”

He shakes his head. “I’m not saying that, Roland. His hand might have slipped, he might have been distraught – I can think of a thousand reasons why he’d end up doing it this way. But there’s just that little twinge of doubt, you know? Because I’m not seeing exactly what I’d expect.”

The problem is, a medical examiner’s gut feelings are no more admissible than a detective’s. If the shooting doesn’t sit right with Bridger, all I can take from that is encouragement. And I need more. A shared hunch isn’t the leverage I need in the interview room with Keller and Salazar. Unfortunately, when it comes to the pathology, it looks like that’s all I’m going to get.

CHAPTER 18

It’s not my house. Better not be. But the closer I get, the louder the music – the peculiar thump and whine of the dirty South. And the cars get thicker, too, lining the curb on either side of the street.

Rolling up to my driveway, I find a Toyota suv squatting halfway over the line, with a queue of others sitting bumper-to-bumper all the way up to the garage. The windows of Tommy’s apartment glow orange, silhouettes grinding in and out of view.

As I sit there, foot on the brake, a group of young men in jeans and V-neck shirts thread their way toward the back, hoisting twelve-packs of Shiner and Lone Star to keep from clipping an antenna or side-view mirror. The one bringing up the rear pauses, cups a hand to his mouth, and howls into the night “Whoooo-hoo,” already lit up from the previous stop on their evening crawl.

A fantasy reel flickers to life in my mind: I’m dragging Tommy down the apartment steps by the scruff of the neck, kneeling him down on the curb, dispatching him execution-style. But violence isn’t the answer. Except when it is.

Down at the end of the street I find a parking spot, then double back along the sidewalk. The neighbors have taken refuge behind closed drapes and lowered blinds, but my house emits no light.

I let myself in the front door. Inside, the only illumination comes through the back windows, a grid of shadows with the occasional figure ducking past. The only sound is the muffled music and the vibration of hundred-year-old glass in the windowpanes. Otherwise, the house is so still it could pass for abandoned.

I head to the back, lifting a shade with my finger. The yard is empty, but a crowd of people congregates on the stairs, most sitting while a few cling to the railing, trying to pick their way to the top. I count fifteen, maybe sixteen heads, and I’m guessing there are as many more again packed into the small apartment.

Another reel: the wooden stairs collapsing under the weight, Tommy teetering on the threshold to keep his balance, arms wind-milling through the air, then falling with a gasp onto the jagged tip of a two-by-four.

I told him to keep things low-key. I told him there would be trouble.

“Satisfied?”

Her voice makes me jump. Behind me, veiled by the dark, Charlotte sits gargoyle-like in a wing chair, her feet on the cushion, knees drawn up to her chin.

“I didn’t see you there.”

She keeps very still. “You said you were going to have a talk with him. You promised to at least do that.”

“I did,” I say. “I told you that.”

“It wasn’t enough.” Her voice rises. “It obviously wasn’t enough.”

“I guess not. And you’ve been sitting here all this time? In the dark? You should have at least called me, babe – ”

“And said what?” She throws up her hands, but without much force in the gesture, weary of repeating the complaint. “Anyway, there’s no telling where you’d be this time of night. No, wait.” A stiff laugh escapes her lips. “You’d be where you always are. Even though you promised me you wouldn’t go there anymore.”

“Charlotte – ”

“I’m tired,” she says. “Tired of what’s going on under my nose. Tired of every conversation turning into some kind of argument.”

The fight goes out of her, and in the gloom I can see her gazing at me, her bottom lip in a swollen pout. That gesture strips years off her. I feel my heart moving in my chest.

“So am I.” I perch on the edge of the sofa, stretching my arm toward her, resting a hand on her knee. “I have a blind spot when it comes to that kid. I know that.”

She covers my hand with hers. “You identify with him.”

“It’s not that.”

“Roland, it is. Trust me, I know you.” She rubs at my knuckle with her thumb, smiling in the darkness. “You cut him slack because you’ve been cut so much slack yourself. Do unto others, you think. You have this crazy take on the Golden Rule.”

“Is that such a bad thing?”

“No, honey, it’s not. But you do it because you’re afraid.”

“Of what?” I ask.

“Of the world coming down on you. It’s like he’s your good luck charm or something. So long as you let him run wild, you can run wild, too.”