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me about the shooting and our conversation veers between an interview and an informal talk. He is no more impressed with my level of detail about the shooter and his car than the young officer on the scene.
    â€œSo the bumper sticker had a quarter moon on it, huh?” Senecker says, underwhelmed. “What do you think that might mean—maybe the shooter’s in an astronomer’s club? Maybe he eats at a restaurant called the Moonbeam Diner.”
    â€œI wish I knew,” I say.
    He looks at me blankly, and I feel even more useless.
    The conversation soon peters out, and Senecker returns to his desk. I drink my water and close my eyes. I keep seeing the shooting, and the bodies on the ground, all that blood pouring out of Samuel. I wish I had seen that license plate. I wish I hadn’t been texting Jessica. Then maybe I would have noticed the car coming, and had a better look at everything. Maybe I would have been aware enough to run after the car, sprinting as hard as I could. I could have been hit, too, but maybe I would have been able to catch up with the shooter. Then I would have reached into the car and wrestled the rifle away. I would have grabbed him by the collar and dragged him out through the open window and onto the street, threw him to the ground and climbed on top of him. I would have punched him hard in the bridge of the nose. And then I would have punched him again, and again, and again. He would have been the one spurting blood.…
    â€œMr. Gallow?”
    â€œYes?” I open my eyes and see Senecker standing over me, and he looks taken aback. I don’t think I barked my answer, but perhaps the anger of my fantasy seeped into my voice.
    â€œAh, just a couple things,” says Senecker. “First, Detective Rizotti—he’s the lead investigator on this case—is on his way in, and he’s going to want to talk to you.”
    â€œOkay.”
    â€œAlso, I need your suit jacket, if you don’t mind,” he says. “We have to test it for gunshot residue. Just so we can rule out that you didn’t fire the gun.”
    I am surprised—don’t they believe my story? But I understand the need to be thorough in one’s work. I stand up, slip off my jacket, and hand it to him.
    â€œWhen will I get it back?” I ask. I have the disconcerting thought that if Cecil dies and I need to attend a funeral, this is my only suit.
    â€œTomorrow,” Senecker says. “Or the next day, at the latest. I’m sure with a Sentinel involved, you’ll go to the front of the line.”
    The detective’s comments jolt me to another reality—how huge a news story these shootings will be.
    I look at my phone and see dozens of texts and e-mails piled up. Teammates, friends, and my brother, Doug, have all tried to reach me. I quickly reply to Doug, telling him where I am and that I’m okay, and that Cecil is being worked on. I also sent a note to Freddie Gladstone, who is a team vice president and my best friend, telling him that I am okay and that I am at the police station awaiting questioning.
    I look for, but do not see, a message from my mother. I suppose I should not be surprised. Her longtime boyfriend, Aaron Handley, the man she left my father for years ago, owns a cabin in the northern Pennsylvania woods, about a half hour south of Elmira, and the two of them retreat there whenever they can. The cabin has no television or Internet service, and cell phones are all but useless.
    I send my mother a text message telling her I am doing fine, so that she will see it when she reconnects to the outside world.
    *   *   *
    It is nearly 4:00 A.M. when Detective Rizotti finally arrives. It may be a further indication of my tiredness and my mood that upon meeting him, I cannot get past how physically repellant he is.
    He is short, in his mid-forties, with wiry black hair and an aquiline nose that dives low on his face, as if it is