Chapter 8
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The door to the interview room closed behind us, and Duffy stopped me again – but less aggressively this time. “Sorry I was so intense before,” he said. “I know you wouldn't have taken anything that mattered. This case must have me a little spooked. I haven’t been shot at in a while, and I definitely haven’t had my actions in the field second-guessed in a good long time.”
“I shouldn't have taken anything at all,” I said. “It was stupid, and I'm sorry I did it. I just felt like puking after I shot Schroeder, and I wanted a cigarette to steady my nerves.”
The bit about wanting to puke was true enough. When I looked down at Schroeder's dead body on the motel room floor, it was fifty-fifty for a minute whether I would throw up or not. When I looked over at what he'd done
