Free Nineteen Minutes by Jodi Picoult Page B

the crime scene techs squeaked on the shellacked floor as they took photographs and picked up shell casings, zipping them into plastic evidence bags. Directing them was Patrick Ducharme.
    Diana looked around at the sheer volume of evidence-clothing, guns, blood spatter, spent rounds, dropped bookbags, lost sneakers-and realized that she was not the only one with a massive job ahead of her. “What do you know so far?”
    “We think it’s a sole shooter. He’s in custody,” Patrick said. “We don’t know for sure whether anyone else was involved. The building’s secure.”
    “How many dead?”
    “Ten confirmed.”
    Diana nodded. “Wounded?”
    “Don’t know yet. We’ve got every ambulance in northern New Hampshire here.”
    “What can I do?”
    Patrick turned to her. “Put on a show and get rid of the cameras.”
    She started to walk off, but Patrick grabbed her arm. “You want me to talk to him?”
    “The shooter?”
    Patrick nodded.
    “It may be the only chance we have to get to him before he has a lawyer. If you think you can get away from here, do it.” Diana hurried out of the gymnasium and downstairs, careful to skirt the work of the policemen and the medics. The minute she walked outside, the media attached themselves to her, their questions stinging like bees. How many victims? What are the names of the dead? Who is the shooter?
    Why?
    Diana took a deep breath and smoothed her dark hair back from her face. This was her least favorite part of the job-being the spokeswoman on camera. Although more vans would arrive as the day went on, right now it was only local New Hampshire media-affiliates for CBS and ABC and FOX. She might as well enjoy the hometown advantage while she could. “My name is Diana Leven, and I’m with the attorney general’s office. We can’t release any information now because there’s an investigation still pending, but we promise to give you details as soon as we can. What I can tell you right now is that this morning, there was a school shooting at Sterling High. It’s unclear as to who the perpetrator or perpetrators were. One person has been remanded into custody. There are no formal charges yet.”
    A reporter pushed her way to the front of the pack. “How many kids are dead?”
    “We don’t have that information yet.”
    “How many were hit?”
    “We don’t have that information yet,” Diana repeated. “We’ll keep you posted.”
    “When are charges going to be filed?” another journalist shouted.
    “What can you tell the parents who want to know if their kids are okay?”
    Diana pressed her mouth into a firm line and prepared to run the gauntlet. “Thank you very much,” she said, not an answer at all.
    Lacy had to park six blocks away from the school; that’s how crowded it had become. She took off at a dead run, holding the blankets that the local radio announcers had urged people to bring for the shock victims. I’ve already lost one son, she thought. I can’t lose another.
    The last conversation she had had with Peter had been an argument. It was before he went to bed the previous night, before she’d been called into a delivery. I asked you to take out the trash, she had said. Yesterday. Don’t you hear me when I talk to you, Peter?
    Peter had glanced up at her over his computer screen. What?
    What if that turned out to be the final exchange between them?
    Nothing Lacy had seen in nursing school or in her work at a hospital prepared her for the sight she faced when she turned the corner. She processed it in pieces: shattered glass, fire engines, smoke. Blood, sobbing, sirens. She dropped the blankets near an ambulance and swam into a sea of confusion, bobbing along with the other parents in the hope that she might catch her lost child drifting before being overwhelmed by the tide.
    There were children running across the muddy courtyard. None of them had coats on. Lacy watched one lucky mother find her daughter, and she scanned the crowd wildly,