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sell?”
    â€œBoth.”
    â€œWhat did he bring in to sell on March 6th?”
    â€œI don’t know.”
    â€œYou can’t remember?”
    â€œI wasn’t there.”
    â€œOn March 6th.”
    â€œYes.”
    â€œWho was tending the store?”
    â€œTending?”
    â€œWho was sitting where you are right now?”
    He blinked. “My daughter.”
    â€œShe dealt with Mr. Szabo on that day?”
    â€œYes.”
    â€œWhat’s her name?”
    Hesitation. “Lisa.”
    â€œWhen will Lisa be in?”
    â€œNot today.”
    â€œTomorrow? Thursday?”
    â€œThursday.”
    â€œI’ll be back Thursday then.” I closed up my notebook, the page empty. While we’d been talking a dreadlocked white kid in cutoffs and sandals had entered the store and started perusing the racks of dusty Nintendo games. I thanked Mr. Ramsey for his time. He didn’t respond.
    T uesday, 2:50 p.m.
    P lace: Brahmin Stamps Coins and Collectables, 3rd Street.
    S peaker: Germit Gil, owner and proprietor
    â€œYes, I’ve done much business with Mr. Szabo. I believe he is a good man. I like his son very much. At least once a month I’d see him. Sometimes he brought his son. I liked them very much. They seemed happy. He sold me some silver coins that day. I still have them. A very good man. I’m very sorry for him.”
    W ednesday, 10:45 a.m.
    P lace: Coin Land, International Village Mall
    S peaker: Bill Koch, store manager
    â€œCliffy, yeah, he did stop by that day. Sucks for him, huh? He’d bring the kid but usually send him to the food court with a dollar. A single dollar, like four quarters. What can you buy with that, a packet of ranch dressing? He never seemed cross with the kid, but he’s not an affectionate guy. But then I knew a guy in the service, nicest, most brave guy I ever met. They found two hookers buried under his house. Goes to fucking show you, doesn’t it?”
    W ednesday, 12:10 p.m.
    P lace: Diaz Bicycles and Sporting Equipment, West Broadway
    S peaker: Arturo Diaz, co-owner
    â€œYou know how I know Django ran away? ’Cause whenever they came into my place Cliff would tell him not to go anywhere, not to touch anything, and Django would usually do both. We’d look around and he’d be gone. Then we’d find him downstairs trying to pedal one of the ten-speeds. Just the kind of kid he was. No, Cliff never hit Django that I saw, but maybe he should’ve. My dad tuned me up a few times. That’s how we learn.”
    W ednesday, 2:00 p.m.
    P lace: Mumbai Sweets, Cambie Street and 49th
    S peaker: Ashraf Dillon
    â€œDon’t remember, sorry. Lots of people bring their kids to eat. Rice or naan?”
    W ednesday, 3:45 p.m.
    P lace: Emily Carr Elementary School, King Edward and Laurel
    S peaker: Henrietta Chang-Clemenceau, seventh grade teacher
    â€œIt was so horrible, so sad. It’s why I changed schools. No, I never noticed any physical abuse, bruises and such. Believe me, if I had I would have spoke up then and there. But I’m pretty attuned to moods and attitudes, and Django was troubled. He’d rarely write in his Classroom Journal, and when he did it was about looking forward to the next Friday when his dad would take him out of school. I had words with his father about that.
    â€œI guess that seems counter-intuitive, that you would look forward to spending more time with someone who treats you poorly — and believe me, I did witness Mr. Szabo treat Django like that several times, snapping at him to get his coat, expressing frustration when he didn’t move fast enough. Have you heard of the Stockholm Syndrome? You may think it’s bull, but I’ve seen it.
    â€œBetween us? What’s so horrible, Mr. Drayton, is that I can’t shake from my head the idea, the feeling, that Mr. Szabo killed his poor son.”
    T hursday I hung back until half past eleven. I’d made about