The man stood across the vacant lot, leaning against a half- demolished brick wall. The man had been there every day at the same time for the past three days, probably long before that. He wore the same clothes. He wore the same hat, the same expression. To Byrne he looked emptied, as if someone had scooped out everything that made him human and left just the shell, a brittle shell at that.This had become Robert O’Riordan’s vigil, the same as a deathwatch, even though his daughter had already died. Or perhaps she had not, in his mind. Perhaps he expected her to appear in one of the windows, like some spectral Juliet. Or maybe his desires were more earthbound, and practical. Maybe he expected Caitlin’s killer to return to the scene of the crime, as killers were wont to do.What would he then do? Byrne wondered. Was he armed? Did Caitlin’s father have the nerve to pull the trigger or launch the blade, based on a suspicion?Byrne had talked to hundreds of fathers in his time on the job, men who had lost a son or daughter to violence.
