"How is he?" asked Cooley.

"He's dead, Cooley."

"Are you sure?"

"He took one through the head and one through the neck. That usually does the job, plus about ten or so through the back of the seat. Hey, where are you…?"

Cooley had dashed off, back to their Dodge. Nash saw that he had the radio mike in front of his face. Calling it in. Good. And here were the two cops from the first blue-and-white.

"He's dead, huh?" said one of them. He was a slight, dark kid who looked about seventeen, hatless, his hair glued to his forehead by the rain. Franciosa was the name on his tag.

"Yeah. Was that you doing the shooting?"

"My partner. I didn't get one off."

"Good for you." Nash crooked a finger at the kid's partner, who seemed to be hanging back. The man came forward. He was a light-skinned black man a little older than Franciosa, inclined to be overweight, with a neat mustache. He stared at the hanging corpse.

"Is he…?"

"Dead," said Nash, "Yeah, who are you… Higgs? Higgs, why were you shooting bullets at me?"

"I wasn't shooting at you, Detective."

"You were, son. You might not have been aiming at me, but you were shooting at me. Did they train you on that weapon at the Academy?"

"Sure. But the way it was…"

"Well, when I was there, the instructor said, 'Always make sure of your target and what is behind it.' I recall it because he said it about five hundred times. I guess they left that part out when you went through. Did they?"

"No." Sullen now.

"I'm glad to hear it. That last shot of yours missed my head by about two feet. What were you firing at?"

"At the… at the car, you know, I thought…"

"At the car? You thought the vehicle was a danger to yourself or the public?"

"I mean the driver. Your partner was shooting like crazy, and I thought, you know…"