A porch crossed the front of the Teasdale house. From the porch, four rocking chairs surveyed a tiny but well-kept yard guarded by a chain-link fence.

Frank rang the doorbell. From where he stood, he could see Skeeter Hodges’s car. The ambulance and the patrol cars were still there, and the flares still guttering, and still no rubbernecking crowd. The door opened a crack.

“Police,” Frank said, flashing his badge. The door closed. He heard the rattle of one chain lock being undone, then a second. The door opened.

Large man. Mahogany skin. Thick black mustache. Prominent, suspicious eyes. Orange and black Orioles cap, bill to the front. A sweater buttoned snugly across a heavy gut.

“In here.”

Teasdale led Frank and Jose through the living room to a dining alcove. No woman around, Frank decided. No plants, pleats, or patterned fabrics. All straight lines, solid colors, and sturdy furniture. It was barracks neat, the way a meat-and-potatoes man would keep things. In the alcove, Teasdale took a chair on one side of the small table and motioned the detectives to chairs on the other side.

Frank and Jose sat down.

Jose started the questions, Frank took notes.

Teasdale was Edward Everett Teasdale. Sixty-one. District native. Four-year enlistment in the Air Force, service in Germany. Retired Metrobus driver. Spouse deceased. Lived on Bayless Place for the last thirty-six years.

“Tell us what happened this evening,” Jose said.

Teasdale told his story in short, unadorned sentences. He told it methodically. A bus driver making all the stops. He finished and sat, hands folded on the table, looking at Jose and Frank.

Frank went first. “So you heard the shots at seven thirty-two.”

“Jason was warming up.”

“You heard shots, but you didn’t go outside for five minutes.”