ON OCTOBER 11, 1996, Dromoor killed one of the rapists with two shots from his .45-caliber police service revolver. You learned this news from Teena. “The first of them. He’s dead.” Teena spoke dazedly. Her eyes burned with fever. The first of them. You would wonder if these were Dromoor’s words, carefully chosen. You would wonder if Dromoor had called Teena from the parking lot, on his cell phone. Except no, such a call might be traced. He would have waited, to call from a public phone some distance from the shooting. But he wouldn’t have waited long. Next you saw TV news. And next the Niagara Journal. DeLucca, James. “Jimmy.” Twenty-four, unemployed at the time of his death. Resident 1194 Forge Street, his parents’ home in Niagara Falls. Survived by . . . There was DeLucca on the TV screen. Photo taken when he’d been in a glittery doped-up mood. Greasy dark hair falling in his face. Presley/greaser style. Some girls would think he was sexy. An overgrown kid. This photo didn’t show DeLucca as he’d looked in the courthouse in his neatly pressed serge suit and neatly tied necktie and neatly combed haircut but more the way he’d actually looked that night in Rocky Point Park.
