punishes them with a look that would freeze blood, but there is no hiding; she is a known face in law enforcement circles. Somehow, this little woman killed three of the Burne brothers. After the newspapers and talk shows abandoned their attempts to interview her, she remained a topic of discussion among the police, the ATF, and the FBI. After all, it was the Burne brothers. It was an irreconcilable event, a stunningly unlikely result.
A uniformed officer escorts them to Detective Crane’s office. Alison sees every person along the way with intensified clarity: the woman with the big knuckles filling a cup at the coffee dispenser, the Latino officer with the overly stocky frame and flashy teeth, the two uniformed cops holding a folder and pretending not to notice her.
Once inside Crane’s office, she takes the seat opposite his desk. Her muscles let go and she relaxes. She feels safe here. As they wait, Hank paces. She is at rest. There is comfort in the deliberate order in this room. Crane is a right angle kind of guy: every sheet of paper on his desk is perfectly stacked, on the corner is a jar with eight sharpened pencils, the top of the file cabinet is a printer and a calendar with pictures of his family. Everything appears brand new. Even the items pinned to the bulletin board are in level lines. Alison breathes and feels calm.
Hank says, “This is a little creepy. Like it’s a prototype of an office.”
“I like it.”
And even these few inconsequential words hurt him, make him feel discounted and minimized. The walls are painted a doughy color that resembles a jar of chicken gravy. The floor moldings only go half way around the room. Alison wonders if they ran out of money or interest. She sees little nail holes in different spots on the walls testifying to the parade of detectives who have occupied this room. Witness to the coming and going of people who cared enough to put up pictures of their spouses, their children, their dogs - people who nail their heart to the wall of their office. She prizes the pictures she has of her family and decides to rearrange her photo albums as a project.
Detective Crane is relatively new to the crumby hallway that leads to his office. He was proud to make detective a few months ago. His wife and kids made him a special pork roast family dinner with a congratulations sign and a balloon. He had wanted to be a detective since he’d been a little boy sitting in front of the TV watching show after show where the good guys were funny and clever and always got their man. Reality has made a series of adjustments to that picture, but he is still proud, and he still loves his job. He may be a touch too refined for the grit of this work, but he was first in his class at the academy so he makes up for that with insight. He nods at Officer Simmons as they pass in the hall.
“Hey, Crane,” Officer Simmons says, “AK Allie is in your office. Just give a shout if you need backup.”
Crane smiles. “Right, thanks.” Inside, though, he doesn’t particularly like this kind of jocularity at a victim’s expense. As he reaches his office door, Officer Thomas joins him. They enter together.
“Hello, Mr. Kraft, Mrs. Kraft.” Crane shakes their hands and Thomas does the same. Alison doesn’t move from her chair. She narrows her eyes and studies them. One of the most alarming realizations about this ordeal for her has been how perfectly average the Burne boys looked. She thinks if there is a god, and he was intent on creating monsters, the least he could do was make monsters look like monsters.
Thomas says, “You’re a legend around here, Mrs. Kraft.”
“I’d like my fifteen minutes to be over.”
“Understandable.” Crane smiles.
Hank walks behind Alison’s chair and puts both his hands on her shoulders protectively. He levels his eyes at these men with a communication that says, “take care.” Crane gets it. Thomas is not that sensitive. He’s a guy who needs to be told things - sometimes more than once if he thinks you’re full of shit or dead ass wrong.
Thomas adds, “We got cops here, me included, who made a career trying to nail any one of the Burne boys and you dusted three in twelve hours.”
“You know how good we women are at dusting.”
Thomas laughs aloud and then seeing