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info when Stover died. Right now, I’m more interested in both of your psychological profiles.” The comment jarred Jane, given her precarious start to the day. Weyler opened a folder. “I see here, Chris, that you completed your psych counsel and they feel that you have come to terms with the incident and are not experiencing any post-traumatic stress episodes. Is that correct?”
     
    “No episodes at all, sir,” Chris said with a shrug of his shoulders. “It was an unfortunate incident but it’s in the past and I’m moving forward. My only concern right now is how this may or may not affect my record with the Department.”
     
    “That has yet to be determined.” Weyler scanned the form. “It says here that you expressed a certain amount of anger regarding the incident.”
     
    “Yes, sir,” Chris said as his eyes scanned the floor. “I felt that we didn’t consider all the angles of what could go down and I’m angry at myself for that. That was one of the first things they taught us in the Marines: figure out everything that can go wrong and have an end run in place.” Chris focused his gaze to his left, away from Jane. “As harsh as it sounds, sir, Stover knew the rules but chose to color outside the lines. Going to get ice cream was just stupid on his part! A window of opportunity opened up and some bastard took advantage of it. The more I’ve thought about it—and believe me, I’ve thought about it—the more I feel that if anyone is to blame for this mess, it’s Stover.”
     
    “Yeah, blame the dead,” Jane said under her breath. Chris shot her a look.
     
    The silence in the room was deafening. Weyler considered Chris’ remarks, closed his folder and pushed it aside. A piercing beep cut into the quiet. Chris jerked forward, snapped his beeper off his waistband and checked the message.
     
    “Sorry, sir,” Chris said in a strong voice. “I told Marshall to beep me if he needed any assistance at that double murder from last night.” Chris slightly hesitated as a vibrating anxiousness buzzed off his body. “Are we okay here?”
     
    “For now, yes. Call Marshall and find out what he needs.”
     
    “Yes, sir,” Chris said as he quickly popped up and maneuvered his wiry body between the chairs.
     
    “Oh, Chris,” Weyler said, “are you working outside duty tonight?”
     
    “There’s a possibility of a security gig at a downtown club. Why?”
     
    “The press is going to be all over last night’s double homicide. I’d like you to be the media point person.”
     
    “Thank you, sir,” Chris responded, bloated with new-found confidence.
     
    “Keep it low-key about the kid. Until she’s willing to talk to us, it’s anybody’s guess where this thing’s going to go.”
     
    “Consider it done,” Chris affirmed as he left the office.
     
    Weyler leaned back in his chair, carefully eyeing Jane. She had a good idea of what was coming and could feel her gut tightening. From the outside, however, she sat stone-faced, arms crossed over her chest and looked Weyler straight in the eye. “Well, Detective Perry, I do not seem to have a psych counsel assessment for you. Now, I know I asked you . . . let me rephrase that, I know that I told you to make an appointment with psych. And yet, you failed to do as I requested—”
     
    “I don’t need to see a fu—” Jane caught herself. “I don’t need to see a psychologist. I’m not weak. Trust me, I’ve experienced a lot worse. What I need is to figure out what happened ten days ago. So, if you’ll excuse me, that’s exactly what I plan to do.” Jane dropped her paperwork into her satchel and stood up.
     
    “Sit down, Detective Perry,” Weyler said with a strict tenor. Jane stood firm. “Sit down . . . Jane,” Weyler said, this time with more equanimity. Jane reluctantly obliged. “You’ve got a lot on your plate right now. I understand from the boys downstairs that your father won’t be able to return to his