kids running in the streets, lawnmowers and barbecues. Morelike a suburb. You could probably hit a baseball from her backyard to thenearest suburb. This is where people come who need to stay in thecity-teachers, cops, firemen, civil servants with residency requirements. Noone would confuse the color of the Pagones’ collars for blue, but the ex-husband,Mat, is on a couple of municipal boards that require him to stay within citylimits. McCoy has heard that it was Allison who wanted this neighborhood, whosimply thought the people were nicer than in some of the trendier parts of thecity or than the old money by the lake. The Pagones had purchased two adjacentlots and built a large house, but what they really wanted was the backyard.There’s a huge garden, a fancy play area with slides and jungle gyms for theirdaughter, who probably hasn’t touched it for ten years.
You look at someone’s possessions, her family, herbackground, you look at her as a person. Some of McCoy’s colleagues don’t digso deep, just focus on the misdeeds and don’t judge, don’t want to see thehuman side because it gets in the way. Jane McCoy has never understood that.You focus only on the black, ignore the white, you miss the gray.
“She was going to die one way or the other,” she hearsHarrick call to her. “She spared herself eight to ten on death row, then apublic execution. She did it on her terms.”
McCoy moans, turns back from the window. “You find anythingelse upstairs, Owen?”
“I found the trophy.”
“The tro-”
“The murder weapon, Jane. That statuette. It’s sitting inher office.”
“That statuette-from that association? Dillon’s award?”
Harrick nods. “Looks like it had been buried. She went andbrought it back. She wanted us to find it. You get it? You see what happened?She wanted it settled. She confessed her sins before she killed herself. She’stelling us she killed Sam Dillon.”
McCoy sighs. “Call this in, Owen?”
“Sure.”
Her team shows up quietly, parking their dark sedans thenext street over and coming through the backyard. This kind of crime sceneisn’t their typical protocol; the feds don’t often investigate homicides. Butthis one doesn’t require much detail, anyway. They photograph the scene, dustfor prints, gather hairs and fibers, test for residue on Allison’s gun hand,finally carry the body out in a covered stretcher. McCoy holds off on callingthe locals for an hour, because with the local cops comes the local media. Sheknows they’ll make it here eventually but she wants to give it some time.
She stands outside two hours later, at nine in the morning.The air is cool and crisp; she prefers spring mornings to any other, even underthese circumstances. By now the reporters have arrived and are lining thecrime- scene tape, shouting questions to anyone who appears to resemble law enforcement.Was this a suicide? Where was she found? Did she leave a note?
McCoy peers at them, silent, through her sunglasses.Something like that, she does not say to them.
Four sedans are lined up along the curb now. Neighbors havegathered around the home as well. This is not the first news of something amissat the Pagone residence, but there’s been nothing this public, at least notsince the search warrant was executed months ago.
Jane McCoy appreciates her anonymity. Like many agents, sheis relatively unknown to reporters. She is unaccustomed to scenes like this.Most of what the agents do is under the radar, and here she is, beingphotographed and taped standing outside the home. It is a matter of courtesymore than anything. She is waiting for someone.
She sees a steel-blue Mercedes pull up quickly to the curb.Roger Ogren, an assistant county attorney, pops out. From what she knows ofhim, which isn’t much, she wouldn’t expect the flashy ride. Not his personalityand quite the fat price tag for his government salary. But every boy needs atoy.
Ogren uses the remote on his keychain to lock up the car andwalks up toward the house. He walks under the tape, stops on the front lawn,looks around, finally focuses on Jane.
“Agent McCoy,” he says.
“It’s Jane, Roger.”
He puts his hands on his hips, wets his lips. “Suicide?”
She nods. “Bullet in the mouth.”
He sighs deeply, seems to deflate. Hurry up and stop-he wasin the full heat of trial mode, and now the defendant is dead.
“No sign of forced entry,” McCoy elaborates. “No sign offoul play at all. GSR on her hand and wrist.”
Ogren does not take the news well. The woman he wasprosecuting, driven to suicide.
“You were going for the death penalty, anyway,” McCoy says.
He runs his hands through his hair. “She was a killer. I wasabout two trial days away from proving that.”
“I know. I was following it. You were doing very well.”
“Suicide.” Roger Ogren stands helplessly a moment. He is ina suit, but his shirt is open at the neck. He got ready in a hurry. He sighsand seems to deflate.
“It’s not your fault,” McCoy offers, in case he needs tohear it. “If anything, it’s mine. This lady was up to some bad stuff. Not justthis murder.”
“Not just this murder,” Ogren repeats. “But you won’t tellme what.”
“You know I can’t.”
She tries to read his expression. Really, how upset can hebe? Like she said, he was seeking the death penalty, after all. If thedefendant killed herself because she couldn’t face prison, and ultimately alethal injection, she just saved everyone the trouble.
He wanted the conviction, she assumes. He’s not feelingguilt. He wanted the “w,” the pats on the back, the victory lap at theprosecutor’s office, the press coverage.
“Everyone knew she was going down,” McCoy adds. “Everyoneknew you had her.”
Ogren stretches, arches his back, extends his arms. Full trialmode, probably hasn’t had much sleep. And now this. Like the whole prosecutionwas just a false start.
“She’s not up there anymore,” McCoy says. “You want to gosee the body?”
Ogren looks over the house wistfully. He is suddenly a manwithout a place. This is not his crime scene.
“As long as you’re sure she’s dead,” he deadpans, an attemptat dark humor that falls flat.
She smiles at him. “You want to see the statuette?”
Ogren does a double-take, suddenly perks up. “The-what areyou talking about?”
“The statuette,” she says. “The little trophy. The awardfrom the manufacturers’ association. You always thought she used it to kill SamDil-”
Ogren steps toward her. “You have it? It was here in herhouse?”
Jane McCoy gestures behind her. “She had it in her officeupstairs.”
“That’s not possible.” The prosecutor squints. “She moved itthere, maybe.”
“Exactly,” Jane agrees. “She had buried it somewhereinitially. You can tell because there’s some dirt on it. But there’s some bloodon it, too, and we’re getting prints off it. I assume it’s the murder weapon.We’ve inventoried it. We’ll make it available to you guys.”
Roger Ogren is speechless. It is confirmation that he neverhad. A murder weapon that had never been found. McCoy wonders if there was anyresidual doubt in the prosecutor’s mind, any lingering question of whether hewas accusing the right person. If so, the murder weapon, in the home of theaccused, should erase that doubt.
“This was her way of pleading guilty,” McCoy tells him.“Before she went, she wanted the record clear, I guess.”
Ogren nods aimlessly, his eyes unfocused. “And what aboutthe gun?”
“A revolver. Serial numbers scratched. She must have boughtit on the street.”
Ogren stares at her. Weird, he must be thinking. “Okay.I’ll give you a call,” he says. “I think we would like that statuette,actually.”
“Sure. Call me.”
He turns to leave but stops, looks back at the federalagent. “Why did you say it’s your fault? Her killing herself?”
She makes a face. “I was squeezing her. Maybe too hard.”
Ogren gives her a look of compromise. Squeezing is somethingany prosecutor can understand. No one ever
