Bobby glanced up from the carpet.

"My father was drunk. Blew a point two on the breathalyzer. No way he should've been behind the wheel of a vehicle; he was goddamn lucky a piece of wood was the only thing he hit. That night scared him shitless. Scared me, too. Kind of like one of those TV commercials: Here's your life. Here's your life with too much booze.

"So we made a pledge. I told him I wouldn't drink anymore if he wouldn't drink anymore. I figured I was doing it to help him. I'm kind of guessing he felt he was doing it to help me."

"And it worked?"

"As far as I know, for nearly ten years we've both stuck to it. Until last night."

"So why last night, Bobby?"

He said levelly, "I could say it was because guys were buying me beers. I could say it was because for the first time in years, I wasn't on call, so I was allowed to have a drink. I could say because after ten years, how much could one beer really hurt? I could say a lot of things."

"But you'd be lying?"

"I keep seeing his face," Bobby whispered.

"Every time I close my eyes, I see his face. I did my job, dammit." He hung his head-"Jesus, I didn't think it would be this hard."

She didn't say anything right away. The words just hung there gathering a weight of their own. He finally brought the Coke to his lips and swallowed. Then he looked up at the ceiling, above the dark paneling of mahogany wood trim, and there was Jimmy Gagnon as clear as daylight. One white male subject holding a gun on his wife and kid. One white male subject appearing genuinely surprised as Bobby's 165-grain bullet slammed into his skull. Do you know how a dead man looks? Startled.

Do you know how other people regard that man's killer? With admiration, pity, and fear.

"Are you thinking of drinking again?" Elizabeth asked quietly.

"Yeah."

"Do you think joining an AA group might help?"

"I don't like talking to strangers about my problems."

"Do you think talking to your father might help?"

"I don't like talking to my father about my problems."

"Then who can help you, Bobby?"

"I guess just you."

She nodded thoughtfully.

"There is something you should know," she said after a moment, "before we go any further… I have some previous involvement in this case. I've met with Judge Gagnon."

"What?"

"He wasn't my patient."

"The hell you say." Bobby flew out of his chair. He gazed at her wildly; he couldn't believe this.

"Isn't that a conflict of interest? How can you do that? One day you're listening to one guy's problems, the next you're counseling the guy who's suing him?"

Dr. Lane held up a hand.

"The judge came to me for a professional opinion. I met with him for thirty minutes. Then I referred him to an associate who I felt would be better able to assist him."

"Why? Why did he come to you? What did he want to know?" Bobby leaned over her desk, jaw clenched, arm muscles bulging. He Was pissed as hell, and he knew it showed on his face.

Elizabeth continued to regard him evenly.

"I spoke to Judge Gagnon last night. With his permission, I will share with you what he said. I'm warning you now, however, I don't think it will help."

"Tell me!"

"Then have a seat." Tell me!"

"Officer Dodge, please have a seat."

Her expression remained set. After another moment, Bobby grudgingly let go of her desk. He sat back down, picking up the Coke can and twirling it between his fingers. He felt a light fluttering in his chest. Breathlessness. Panic. Damn, he was tired of feeling this way, as if the world had spun away from him, as if he'd never feel in control again.

"Judge Gagnon had gotten my name from an associate. He came seeking specific information about a psychological phenomenon. Perhaps you've heard of it. Munchausen by proxy."

"Shit," Bobby said.

"The judge told me a little bit about his daughter-in-law, Catherine. He wanted to know if someone with her background might fit the profile of a person capable of Munchausen's. Essentially, he wanted me to tell him, sight unseen, if Catherine was either faking his grandson's illnesses or deliberately making the boy sick in order to gain attention for herself."

"And what did you say?"

"I said it wasn't my area of expertise. I said as far as I knew, there wasn't a profile for Munchausen's. I said that if he honestly believed his grandson was in danger, then he should seek immediate professional assistance and contemplate legal action to separate the boy from his mother."

"Is he going to do that?"

"I don't know. He took the name of the person I gave him and he thanked me for my time."

"When was this?"

"Six months ago."

"Six months ago? The man sought expert advice for the safety of his grandson, and he didn't bother to act on it for six months'?

"Bobby," she said quietly, "I don't know what was going on in that house. More to the point, you don't know what was going on in that house."

"No," he said bitterly.

"I just showed up like judge and jury and shot a man. Shit. Just plain… shit."

Elizabeth leaned forward. Her expression was kind.

"Last night) Bobby, you made a very astute observation. You said, "Tactic teams don't have the luxury of information." Do you remember that, Bobby?"

"Yeah."

"More importantly, do you still believe that, Bobby?"

"A guy is dead. Is it really such a great excuse to say it's because I didn't know any better?"

"It's not an excuse, Bobby. It's a fact of life."

"Yeah." He crumpled the Coke can.

"What a pisser."

Elizabeth shuffled some papers on her desk. The silence dragged on.

"Shall we talk about your family?" Elizabeth asked at last.

"No."

"Well, then, shall we talk about the shooting?"

"Hell no."

"All right. Let's discuss your job. Why policing?"

He shrugged.

"I liked the uniform."

"Any other family members who were law enforcement? Friends, associates, relatives?"

"Not really."

"So you're the first? Starting a new family tradition?"

"That's me. I'm a wild child." He was still feeling belligerent.

Elizabeth sighed and drummed her fingernails on the top of her desk.

"What brought you to the badge, Bobby? Of all the jobs in the world, how did this one become yours?"

"I don't know. When I was a kid, I figured I'd either be an astronaut or a cop. The astronaut thing was a little harder to pull off, so I became a cop."

"And your father?"

"What about my father? He's okay with it."

"What did he do for a living?"

"Drove a front loader for Gillette."

"And your mom?"

"Don't know."

"Do you ever ask your father questions about your mother?"

"Not in a long time." He set down the crumpled can and gazed at her pointedly.

"Now you're asking questions about my family."

"So I am. Okay, you became a cop because the astronaut gig Seemed like a bit of a stretch. Why a tactical team?" The challenge." He said it immediately. "You wanted to become a sniper? Were you always into guns?"

"I'd never shot a rifle before."

He'd finally surprised her.

"You'd never fired a rifle? Before joining the STOP team?"

"Yeah. My father collects guns, does some custom work. But those are handguns, and frankly, my father's not big into shooting anyway, he just likes working on pistols. The machinery. The beauty of a really nice piece."

"So how did you become a sniper?"

"I was good at it."

"You were good at it?"

He sighed.

"When qualifying for the tac team, you have to take proficiency exams in a variety of weaponry. I picked up the rifle and I was good at it. Little bit more practice here and there and I scored expert. So my lieutenant asked me about being a sniper."

"You're a natural with guns?"