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“Here’s the suspect’s last mug shot. Do you remember seeing him?” From the pocket of her blazer, Compton produced the picture and held it out to him.
The guy was about what Calder had expected: half-mast eyelids, long, unwashed hair, and a “fuck you” expression. In a few minutes’ time, he’d graduated from punk to mass murderer.Congratulations, asshole.
With disgust, Calder handed the picture back to Compton. “I don’t remember seeing him, but I could have. It was an awful crush.”
“What were you doing when you heard the first shot?”
“Working my way through the crowd. Shauna had mentioned that she would be backstage. I was trying to figure out the easiest way to get there.”
“When you first heard the shots, what did you think?”
“I thought, some crazy motherfucker is shooting at us.”
Again the detectives exchanged a look before coming back to him. Compton said, “We’re checking into the suspect’s background to see if he had a history of mental illness.”
“If he didn’t before, he has a history of it now.”
Compton didn’t respond to that. “You knew right away you’d heard a gunshot?”
“Yeah. My dad is a gun enthusiast. He has semiautomatic weapons that he uses for sport. Less now than he used to, but, growing up, I often went to the range with him. We always wore headsets, but I know what they sound like when fired. What did this guy use?”
“Glock 34.”
Calder knew it to be a semiautomatic nine-millimeter, a favorite of law enforcement officers.
“It came with an eighteen-round magazine,” the agent said. “It was empty.”
So he’d fired his last bullet into his own head, Calder thought.
“Do you own a gun, Mr. Hudson?” Compton asked.
“Only a deer rifle, but I rarely go hunting. The last time was a couple of years ago. The rifle hasn’t been fired since.”
Perkins said, “You were seen on security cameras hunkering down and grabbing the sleeve of the man nearest you and pulling him to the ground.”
“I did? I don’t remember.”
“He does,” Compton said, her eyebrow arching again.
“Is he okay?”
“Thanks to you.”
Calder rubbed his hand over his face. “I can’t take credit. I acted on impulse.”
“You’re shown shouting and motioning for people to get down.”
“I really don’t remember.”
“Did you have military training?”
“No. I never served.” He tried to situate himself more comfortably on the bed, but with all the tubes attached to him, he was as good as strapped down. “I’m hurting, and I’m tired. I don’t remember much. I reacted. That’s it, okay?”
“Do you remember going after a baby stroller?”
He closed his eyes. His head hurt more when he tried to think. “Not until just now. Not until you said it.”
“Did you know the child?”
