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guns, he knew how to conduct himself with law officers. Now that he was in lawyer mode again, his torn, filthy suit somehow looked dignified.
    Jamie went next. Cavanaugh had taught her to answer police questions directly but never to provide more than what was asked and never to attempt to deceive.
    Then it was Cavanaugh's turn. The room had harsh lights, plain walls, two chairs, and a small desk. Focusing on minutiae helped keep his emotions in check.
    “Want some coffee?” Garth pointed toward a carafe and some Styrofoam cups on the desk. A tape recorder was there, also.
    “I could use the caffeine,” Cavanaugh said, pouring a cup. His watch showed that it was half past ten. But now that his adrenaline had dissipated, he felt as if it were four in the morning.
    “Ready?” Garth asked.
    “When you are.” The stench of smoke radiated from Cavanaugh's jeans and shirt. His neck and arm hurt. His back felt bruised where the bullet had struck his armor. But at least his legs and chest felt lighter, relieved of the heavy vest.
    Garth pressed buttons on the recorder. “This is Captain Garth Braddock. The interview is with Aaron Stoddard.” He gave the place, time, and date. “Tell me what happened.”
    While waiting, Cavanaugh had taken the opportunity to get his narrative in order. Only after concluding his description, did he allow his emotions to show. “I haven't the faintest fucking idea what's going on.”
    “We found your sniper.”
    Cavanaugh leaned forward. “Is he answering questions?”
    “It's a hard to get answers from a corpse. Somebody shot him four times in the face.”
    Cavanaugh took a moment to adjust to that, finally saying, “That explains the four pistol shots we heard.”
    “Fragmentation-type ammunition. Mutilated his features enough that even people who knew him would have trouble identifying him. His teeth were so damaged that comparing them to dental records will be useless. The question is, who did that to him?”
    Cavanaugh thought about it. “The only available candidate is someone on the assault team. But that doesn't make sense. Did he have ID?”
    “No.”
    “Did you send his fingerprints to the FBI?”
    “Couldn't. The tips of his fingers were cut off.”
    Cavanaugh took a longer time to adjust to that.
    “The four men you killed,” Garth said.
    “Was forced to kill.”
    “ Their fingerprints got a really quick response. Those men were fresh out of prison. Within the past six weeks.”
    “Six weeks?”
    “I can't imagine how they came to be together. They served time in four different penitentiaries. Pennsylvania. Alabama. Colorado. Oregon.” Garth slid a sheet of paper across the table. “Recognize any of these names?”
    Cavanaugh studied them, hoping, but finally had to say, “No.” He grasped at a thought. “Four different prisons? They must have known each other before they went to those prisons.”
    “Not according to their criminal records. There's no indication they ever crossed paths before. But they did have one thing in common. Armed robbery. Gang shootings. Rape. These were really violent guys.”
    “Before everything started, I think I saw them and the rest of their friends at the Moose Junction gas station.” Cavanaugh said. “They didn't handle themselves like street criminals. They weren't wired and jittery and unfocused. These guys had stillness and control. They looked like operators.”
    “But their records indicate they were street criminals. So how, all of a sudden, did they get to be . . . ‘Operators’ you called them? Unusual word. I don't often hear it. That car of yours. When I got a close look at what was left of it, I found bullet-resistant windows, armor plating, tires within tires . . . Tell me again what you used to do for a living.”
    “I was in the security business.”
    “The bodyguards I see around here—”
    Cavanaugh hated the word.
    “—are usually hired by entertainers and sports stars on vacation. Mostly for show in