The bandages on our hands were smeared with grease and pizza sauce. There was a knock on the door, and Edward let John Bascom in. “John Bascom, Cody Gibbons,” I said, enjoying a beer buzz and trying, unsuccessfully I thought, for a tone of formality. “He’s a detective for San Jose PD and a close friend of mine.” Cody was sitting in an easy chair with his legs propped up on another chair. He balanced a piece of pizza on his fist and leaned forward to drink out of a straw angling from a can of Coors. We were both still in our hospital gowns since we couldn’t fit our clothes over the bandages on our hands and feet. “I thought it would be best we talk in person,” I said. “I met the man who stabbed your son.” “What?” Bascom said. “Take a seat,” I said. “Have a beer, man,” Cody said, but Bascom ignored him. “Yeah, I met him,”
