“Stop!” Jack-n-Jack ordered as a single unit. “No touching! Remember, you are part of the crime scene. We need your face to analyze spray.”

“Ahhhhhhh,” the guy said.

Jack-n-Jack looked at him and snapped a fresh photo.

Griffin suppressed a grin. Yeah, just like old times. You know, other than the fact that they'd never had an assassination at the state courthouse before. He finished securing the airspace above the judicial complex, then returned his attention to Jack-n-Jack.

“What do we got?”

“Single head shot. Entrance wound top of the skull. Exit wound beneath the chin. No sign of powder burns. We're guessing a rifle with a soft-point slug, which would provide enough force to penetrate the skull and enough spread to do… well, to do that.”

Jack-n-Jack pointed to the body. It was a good thing Griffin had seen Eddie Como's face on TV, because he definitely couldn't see it now. Soft-point bullets expanded on impact, creating a wonderful mushrooming effect.

“So a steeply vertical rifle shot.” Griffin looked up. A rooftop sniper would be consistent with initial reports. Unfortunately, from this angle inside the courtyard, he couldn't see anything tucked back from the roofline six stories up. That didn't bode well for witnesses. On the other hand, that's why they paid him the big bucks. He pulled out his Norelco mini-recorder and focused on the five shackled prisoners.

“Anybody,” he said. “I'm pretty sure all of you could use the brownie points.”

None of the guys looked particularly impressed. Finally, the first guy shook his head.

“Man, we don't know nothin'. We were just climbing out of the van and then boom! We hear this crack like fuckin' lightning overhead and the next instant, we all get yanked off our feet. Look back and Eddie's on the ground, state marshals are yelling gun, gun, and Jazz here”-the first guy gave the kid shackled to the right of Eddie's body a derisive glance-“is already screaming, ‘I've been hit, I've been hit.' Course he ain't been hit. He's just wearing most of Eddie's brains.”

Griffin looked down the inmate line. They all nodded. This seemed to be the official summary of events. He glanced back up at the roofline, trying to figure out if he should separate them all and push the issue. Not worth it, he decided. Even knowing there were two crime-scene techs on the roof, he couldn't see a damn thing from this angle. Across the street, on the other hand…

A voice came over the radios secured to Jack-n-Jack's waists.

“We got a gun,” a crime-scene tech reported from the roof. “AR15 assault rifle with a Leupold scope, two-twenty-three Remingtons in the magazine. Also have three Army blankets, black coveralls, a pair of shooting gloves, and a pair of shoes. Oh, and three empty wrappers from snack-sized packages of Fig Newtons. Apparently our guy didn't just want ordinary cookies, but fruit and cake.”

“Cigarette butts?” one Jack asked hopefully.

“No cigarette butts,” the tech reported back. “Sorry, Jack.”

“Bummer.” The first Jack looked at the second Jack morosely. Cigarette butts contained such a wealth of information, from brand specifics to DNA-yielding saliva.

“Cheer up,” Griffin said supportively. “You have shoes. Think of everything you can get from shoes.”

The Jacks brightened again. “We like shoes,” they agreed. “We can do things with shoes.”

Griffin gave the pair another encouraging nod, then walked over to the state marshals. Detective Mike Waters had the three men huddled around his Norelco Pocket Memo, making official statements.

“ Griffin!” the first marshal said. He pulled back from the recorder long enough to vigorously pump Griffin 's hand.

“Hey, Jerry. How are you?” Heavyset with thinning gray hair, Jerry was an old-timer with the state marshals. He'd helped train Griffin 's older brother, Frank. Then again, Jerry had helped train just about everyone in the gray uniform.

“Fine, fine,” Jerry was saying. “Well, okay, could be better. Jesus, I heard you were coming back but I didn't realize it would be today of all days. You always could pick 'em, Griff. Hey, you actin' as ringleader of this circus?”

“Nah, just another working stiff. Hey, George. Hey, Tom.” Griffin shook the other two men's hands as well. Beside him, Detective Waters cleared his throat. Griffin belatedly turned toward his fellow officer. Mike Waters was five years Griffin 's junior. He was tall and lanky, with a penchant for navy blue suits that made him look like an aspiring FBI agent. He was smart though, deceptively strong and thoughtfully quiet. A lot of suspects underestimated him. They never got a chance to make that same mistake twice.

There had been a time when Griffin would have greeted Mike with a hearty “Cousin Stinky!” And there had been a time when Waters would have responded with a booming “Cousin Ugly!” That time was gone now. One of the open questions in Griffin 's life was would that time come again.

“Sergeant,” Waters said, nodding in greeting.

“Detective,” Griffin replied. The three state marshals perked up, gaze going from officer to officer. They had probably heard the story. For that matter, they had probably helped spread the story. Griffin tried but couldn't quite keep his gaze from going to Waters's nose. That was okay. Waters's gaze had gone to Griffin 's fist.

Both men jerked their eyes back to the marshals. The silence had gone on too long, grown awkward. Griffin thought, Shit.

Waters cleared his throat again. “So as you guys were saying…”

“Oh yeah.” Jerry picked up the story. “We secured the courtyard.”

“We opened the van doors,” George supplied.

“We took up position,” Tom filled in. “Started the unloading-”

“Boom!”

“Ka-boom!” George amended.

“Definitely a high-powered rifle. Nice sharp crack. I honestly thought for a second that someone was shooting deer.”

“Then I saw red. Literally. Stuff sprayed everywhere.”

“Kid dropped straight down. Dead before he hit the ground. You hear about this stuff, but I've never seen anything like it.”

“I yelled ‘gun.' ”

“He did. Jerry yelled ‘gun,' we all dropped into a crouch. You know, with the sun coming up behind the roof like that, you just can't see a damn thing. Scariest goddamn moment of my life.”

“I thought I saw movement. Maybe somebody running. That's it, though.”

“Then we could hear all the reporters yelling across the street. ‘On the roof,' they were shouting. ‘There he goes, there he goes.' ”

“Distinguishing features?” Waters prodded. “Height, weight?”

“Couldn't even make out if it was a man or woman,” Jerry said bluntly. “I'm telling you, it was more like catching the flash of a silhouette. Moved fast though. Definitely one well-conditioned sniper.”

Waters gave the marshal a look. “‘One well-conditioned sniper,' huh? Well, let me run straight to my lieutenant with that. I mean, by God, Jerry, let's get out the APB.”

The three marshals squirmed. “Sorry, guys,” Jerry finally said with a shrug, “but from here… Look up yourself. You can't see a damn thing.”

“Try the reporters, though,” George spoke up. “They had a much better vantage point. Hey, they might have even gotten the guy on film.”

The three marshals, not above getting a little revenge after they'd been put in the hot seat, smiled at them. While they'd been talking, the roar from the reporters had grown even louder outside the courthouse. Now they sounded kind of like King Kong-right before he burst his chains.

Waters sighed. Looked miserable. Then morosely hung his head. He hated the press. Last time he and Griffin had worked together, he'd let a statement slip within a reporter's earshot and paid for that mistake for weeks. Besides, as he'd later confided to Griffin, his butt looked even bonier on camera. Two fine citizens had written letters to the editor requesting that somebody in the Rhode Island police department start feeding him.