left, state-police officer Dom Agganis led me back up the hill to Larry Bucyck’s house. We got there just in time to see the emergency wagon pull away and go bumping down the driveway—carrying Larry’s body, I assumed.“Can I go now?” I said to Agganis.He turned to me and smiled. “Nope.”“What now?”“Now we head over to the police station so we get your story on tape.”“How many times do I have to tell it?”“Which version?”“Look,” I said, “I haven’t rehearsed it, you know? My old friend, my client, we found his dead body in a pigsty and you tell me he was executed. It’s all kind of spinning around in my head.”“Good thing, too,” said Agganis. “I don’t trust pat stories. But we’ve got to get it on tape, and it’s going to take a little while. You might as well get used to it.”“You could at least say you’re sorry.”He smiled. “I’m truly sorry about your friend. I’m not sorry I have to interview you some more.” He touched my arm, steered me over to the Chilmark PD cruiser, and opened the back door.
