Neither round and rosy nor dark and haunted, his was one hundred percent affable, and, as the ladies were fond of noticing and slow to respond to, boyish. It hadn’t looked boyish since Magozzi told them what he’d learned in the bathroom. It took the media about five minutes longer to learn about the Mason jars, and now the coverage was nonstop, and about as close to grim as Minneapolis television ever got, which meant the anchors weren’t smiling. Magozzi and Gino had gone back to their desks, but McLaren and Tinker were hooked to the TV like dogs on a leash. ‘Jesus, Mary, and Joseph,’ McLaren murmured, and for the first time Magozzi heard Ireland in the lilt. ‘They found another one. How many is that?’ ‘Seven,’ Tinker said. ‘And how many bomb squads have we got?’ ‘Last time I checked, we had four. In the whole state.’ Magozzi looked across the desk at Gino, whose eyes were fixed on the TV.
