The black detective, dressed nattily in tweed, vest, and school tie, stepped closer. "Joseph Kurtz, I'm Detective Paul Kemper. My partner and I are investigating the shooting of you and Parole Officer Margaret O'Toole…" began the man in an almost avuncular resonant voice.

On, shit, thought Kurtz. He closed his eyes and remembered O'Toole opening a door for him.

"… can be used against you in a court of law," the man was saying. "If you cannot afford an attorney, one will be appointed for you. Do you understand your rights as I've just explained them to you?"

Kurtz said something through the pain.

"What?" said Detective Kemper. Kurtz changed his mind. The man's voice wasn't nearly as friendly or avuncular-sounding now.

"Didn't shoot her," repeated Kurtz.

"Did you understand your rights as I explained them to you?"

"Yeah."

"And do you wish an attorney at this time?"

I wish some Darvocet or morphine at this time, thought Kurtz. "Yeah… I mean, no. No attorney."

"You'll talk to us now?"

How many fucking times are you going to ask me? thought Kurtz. He realized that he'd spoken this aloud only when the male detective got a stern don't-fuck-with-me cop look on his face and the female detective still standing against the far wall chuckled. Kurtz knew that chuckle.

"Why were you in the garage with Officer O'Toole?" asked Kemper. The detective's voice sounded totally unavuncular this time.

"Coincidence." Kurtz had never noticed how many syllables were in that word before today. All four of them hit him like hot spikes behind the eyes. He needed shorter words.

"Did you fire her weapon?"

"I don't remember," said Kurtz, sounding like every perp he'd ever questioned.