"Comfortable?" she asked finally.

"Not what I was expecting."

"What were you expecting?"

"Something… not quite this nice." By "nice," he meant wealthy. They both understood that.

"You really work for the state?"

"I started working with the state police fifteen years ago. My father's a retired Chicago detective, so let's just say I have a; personal interest in the field." She shrugged.

"Perhaps I've never, changed my rates. Shall I explain to you how this works?"

"Okay."

"I am working for the State Police of Massachusetts, not for you. As such, I have a duty to report back based upon our conversations, which limits the confidentiality of anything you tell me. On the one hand, I never report specific details. On the other hand, I am required to give my conclusions and opinions. Thus, for example, you can tell me you drink three pints of whiskey a night, and while I wouldn't necessarily repeat that, I would have to recommend that you not return to duty. Is that clear to you?"

"Watch what I say." He grunted.

"Interesting approach."

"Honesty is still the best policy," Elizabeth said quietly.

"I'm; here to help you, or if we decide that I can't, refer you to someone who can."

Bobby just shrugged.

"Fine, so what do you want me to tell you?"

Elizabeth smiled again. Opening with blatant hostility. She would've expected no less.

"Let's begin with the basics." She picked up her clipboard.

"Name?"

"Robert G. Dodge."

"What's the G stand for?"

"Given the limited confidentiality, I'm not saying."

"Oooh, that good? Let's see, Geoffrey?"

"No."

"Godfrey?"

"How the hell?"

"Let's just say I also don't give out my middle name. Godfrey. Family name?"

"That's what my father says."

"And your parents are?"

"My father. His name's Larry. Lawrence, actually."

"And your mother?"

"Gone."

"Gone?"

"Yeah, gone. Left. I was four or five. No, maybe six or seven. I don't know. She left."

Elizabeth waited.

"I don't think marriage to my father was going so well," Bobby added. He spread his hands as if to say, What can you do? Indeed, at that young age, what could he have done?

"Siblings?"

"One. Older. Name's George Chandler Dodge, so yeah, the whole family's cursed with rotten English names. Now, what does this have to do with the shooting?"

"I don't know. Does it have anything to do with the shooting?"

Bobby was on his feet.

"No. None of that. That's why people don't like shrinks."

Elizabeth held up her hands in surrender.

"Point taken. Honestly, I'm simply filling in blanks on the form. And for the record, most people like to make a little small talk first."

Bobby sat back down. He remained scowling, however, and those keen eyes of his were narrowed, assessing. She wondered how often he used that stare on people and found them wanting. She added to her mental list: Lots of acquaintances but very few friends. Does not forgive. Does not forget.

And he had lied about his mother's leaving.

"I'd like to keep this simple," he said.

"Fair enough."

"Ask what you gotta ask, I'll answer what I gotta answer, and we can both get on with our lives."

"Admirable goal."

"I'm not thinking of a lifetime plan."

"Wouldn't dream of suggesting it to you," she assured him.

"Unfortunately, this isn't single-sitting work."

"Why not?"

"For starters, you didn't make an appointment and we don't have enough time to cover everything in one night." "Oh."

"So, I'm going to suggest that we talk a little bit tonight, then meet again on Monday."

"Monday." He had to think about it.

"All right," he begrudged the professional headshrinker.

"I can do that."

"Perfect. Glad we got that covered." Her voice sounded drier than she intended, but at least he smiled. He had a decent smile. It softened the hard lines of his face and put bracket lines around his eyes. She was slightly surprised to realize that when he smiled, he was one very handsome man.

"Maybe instead of talking about last night, we can talk about today," she said.

"Today?"

"Today is the first day of your life after you've shot someone. Surely that's noteworthy. Have you slept?"

"A little."

"Eaten?"

He had to think about it, then seemed genuinely surprised.

"No, I guess I haven't. I went out to fetch coffee when I woke up this afternoon, but then I saw the Boston Herald and… I never got the coffee."

"Did you pick up the Herald?"

"Yeah."

"Read the article?"

"Enough."

"What'd you think?"

"Massachusetts State Police officers don't target civilians, not even if they're judges' sons."

"Good piece of fiction?"

"Yeah, based on the three paragraphs I read, I'd agree with that."

"You didn't read more? I would've thought you'd be more curious."

"About what happened? I don't need some reporter's account, I had box seats."

"No. About the victim. About Jimmy Gagnon."

That drew him up short. She gave him credit. She'd caught him off guard, but he took the time to consider her point.

"Information is a luxury tactical units don't have," he said finally.

"When I pulled the trigger last night, I didn't care about the man's name, his neighborhood, his father, or his history. I didn't know if he beat his dog or gave money to orphanages. All I knew was that the subject had a gun pointed at a woman's head and his finger on the trigger. I had to base my actions on his actions. So I did. Now none of the rest matters anymore, so why torture myself with it?"

Elizabeth smiled again. She liked Bobby Dodge. She hadn't seen so many layers of denial and rationalization in years, but she liked Bobby Dodge.

"Exercise?" she asked.

"Have you worked out today?"

"No. I thought about going for a run, but with my photo plastered everyplace…"

"I understand. Okay, this is your assignment for the weekend. You need to start taking care of yourself physically, so you can then tend to yourself emotionally. Is there anyplace you can go, maybe your father's, maybe your brother's, where you can escape and get some rest?"

"My girlfriend's."

"And she's doing okay with this?"

"I don't know. We haven't exactly had time to chat about it."

"Well, given what's happened, you're going to need a good support network, so if I were you, I'd talk to her about it." Elizabeth leaned forward.

"Last night was a big thing, Bobby. It's going to take more than twenty-four hours for you to wade through it, so first things first. Eat three well-balanced meals a day and try to get a good night's sleep. If you're feeling tense and wired, engage in some light exercise to blow off steam. Be careful, though. There's a fine line between running six miles to help yourself relax and running fifty miles to grind your thoughts into dust. You don't want to cross that line."

"I promise not to run more than forty-nine miles," he said.

"All right, then. Have a nice weekend."

"That's it? Eat, sleep, work out, and I'm cured? I can go back to work next week?"

"Eat, sleep, work out, and we'll talk more later," she corrected mildly.

"But not tonight; it's too late and maybe it's even too soon for you to know everything that's on your mind. I'm going to give you my phone number. You can call me if you do feel a sudden urge to talk, otherwise I'll see you on Monday. How does three sound?"

He shrugged.

"They won't let me work, so I guess my day's kinda open."

"Perfect." She rose. He rose. He didn't bolt for the door right away, like she thought he might. Instead, he just sort of stood there, looking adrift.

"Sometimes," he said abruptly, "sometimes when I think about what happened, I get really angry. Not with myself, but with the subject, for going after his wife and kid. For making me shoot him. Is that weird? To kill a man and hate him for it?"