Shoot / Don't Shoot

to pack twice—first to check out of the hotel and next to leave the dorm. Even so, the process didn’t take long. After closing up her own APOA room, Joanna helped Lo­relie Jessup pack up Leann’s things.

“Will Leann be coming to the funeral this afternoon?” Joanna asked.

Lorelie shook her head. “She wanted to, but the doctor says no. It’s still too early for her to leave the hospital.”

“That’s probably just as well.”

At noon, Joanna stood on the steps of the Mari­copa County Courthouse, watching from among the crowd while a newly released Jorge Grijalva emerged with his children. As the television cameras rolled, Joanna tried to slip away, but Ceci had spotted her. She dragged the man she knew as her father over to where Joanna was standing.

“Thank you,” Jorge said.

“You’re welcome,” Joanna answered. “Will the kids be going back to Bisbee with you?”

Jorge shook his head. “Not right now. They’re in school. They’ll stay with their other grandparents, at least until the end of the year. It’ll all work out.”

“Yes,” Joanna said. “I’m sure it will.”

Four hours later, Joanna was part of a large con­tingent of police officers, both in and out of uni­form, who gathered respectfully in Glendale Memorial Park for Dave Thompson’s graveside fu­neral service. Listening to the minister’s laudatory eulogy, Joanna found herself wondering what the truth was about Dave Thompson. On the one hand, some of the cigarette stubs from the tunnel behind the mirrored walls were the same brand Dave Thompson smoked. But no one—Butch Dixon in­cluded—had ever seen Dave smoking inside.

Had he been the one in the tunnel or not? If Larry Dysart had been smart enough to plant evidence in Jorge’s pickup, he might also have planted the incriminating cigarette stubs. But there was no way to know for sure. Not ever.

Toward the end of the service, Joanna watched the mourners. There was an elderly couple—probably Dave’s parents—and then two children—a boy and a girl—who were evidently Dave’s kids.

The program provided by the mortuary listed among Dave’s survivors his children, Irene Danielle and David James Thompson. The girl looked to be a year or so older than Jenny, while the boy was maybe a year or so older than that.

The funeral was over and Joanna was almost ready to leave when she saw the boy standing off by himself. Despite the warm afternoon sunshine he stood with his shoulders hunched as if to ward off the cold. He looked so lost and miserable that Joanna couldn’t walk past without speaking to him.

“David?” she asked tentatively.

He turned toward her, his face screwed up with anguish. “Yes?” he said, and then quickly looked away.

Studying him, Joanna found that David James Thompson resembled his father. He couldn’t have been more than twelve, but he was almost as tall as Joanna. His sport coat, although relatively new, seemed to be several months too small. His tie was uneven and poorly knotted. Searching for something comforting to say, Joanna felt the lump grow in her throat. Tying ties properly is something boys usually learn from their fathers.

“I’m Joanna Brady,” she said, holding out her hand. “I was one of your father’s students at the APOA.”

David Thompson looked at Joanna. “Was he a good teacher?” he asked. “At home we never heard any good stuff about him, only bad.”

“Your father wasn’t an easy teacher,” Joanna answered. “But sometimes hard ones are the best kind. He was teaching us things that will help us save lives.”