Lassiter pulled his navy Crown Vic into the driveway of the quaint house. It wasn't extravagant, nor was it rundown. In fact, it could have been on one of those real estate ads portraying normal suburbia-it was about as average as a house could get. It had a cozy porch enclosed by a plain white railing. Two rocking chairs sat below the front picture window. The door was a bright red, giving it a rural farmhouse feel. The rest of the house was painted a dull white. It fairly blended into the background. Nothing about it made it stand out, which strangely comforted Lassiter. What he wouldn't give to hide away like that house right now. Hide from the case, from his memories, from his friends, and especially from his partner, who he knew had not forgotten about the promise he made.

She was still staring at him almost accusatorily as he stepped out of the car, but she hadn't said anything more to him about what happened that morning. Instead, she'd tried discussing the case and her theories about it. Lassiter only halfway listened, occasionally murmuring assent to her ideas, though he had his own theories about the case.

His first thought was that the shooting was some sort of gang-related incident. God knows Santa Barbara had had enough of those lately. But then Chief Vick had mentioned the teenage boy's brother being in the Army Rangers and getting killed in Iraq. It was then that Lassiter knew what had happened: the kid had gone crazy. His brother's death, especially on his birthday, in a foreign place, had driven him to the point of madness. Death did crazy things to people, especially death in war. Lassiter recalled one of his buddies (who was now dead himself) who-after watching a 105 mm shell rip through his sergeant-went insane and ripped apart a stray dog with his bare hands. It had taken three bulky soldiers to restrain him. Lassiter remembered the way the soldier's eyes had narrowed, bent on blood. He looked a thousand times more menacing than any Hollywood villain ever could. This was a man who knew how to kill, and had finally been driven to the point where he wanted to kill. He'd still been young and impressionable then, and he couldn't understand why a man would act that way. But, after he'd seen enough death, he realized that every man had his breaking point.

I wonder where mine is.

O'Hara slammed her car door. "I have a feeling we may be able to apprehend the murderer here," she confidently stated. Lassiter only nodded and put on his aviators, his only way to hide for now.

Together, they strode through the well-manicured front lawn to the front door, which Lassiter rapped on three times. He heard a heavy sigh and then a clunky shuffling. Shhh CLUMP shhh CLUMP. Lassiter immediately knew what the sound was-a prosthetic leg. He'd heard it countless times in Heidelberg at the 95th Evacuation Hospital, where he'd spent over three months staring at the impeccably white ceiling and screaming for morphine.

His hunch was confirmed when a towering older man opened the door: Mr. Murray. He was in khaki shorts and a black t-shirt with a faded white American flag on the front and the crossed rifle insignia of the infantry on his shoulders. He had a slight paunch to his belly, but he was actually quite trim for his age, probably a side effect from having to stay that way for so many years. Lassiter felt the need to salute, but he restrained it. Neither one was in uniform, and he didn't want to raise O'Hara's suspicions anymore than he already had.

"What is it?" Mr. Murray grunted.

Lassiter took over-he felt most comfortable when he was in control. "Mr. Murray, my name is Detective Lassiter and this is my partner, Detective O'Hara. We need to ask you some questions."

"About what?" Mr. Murray's thinning mustache quivered indignantly.

"About the murder of Daniel Choi."

Mr. Murray's countenance shifted, but not to sympathy. Instead, his face broke into a sickening grin. "A gook, eh? The yellow devil get wasted good?"

Lassiter grit his teeth. He could remember when he felt the same way about the Iraqis affectionately termed "ragheads." In fact, he still felt the same. But he swallowed his prejudice and hate and forced himself to say, "Sir, if you don't answer our questions, we'll arrest you for obstruction of justice."

Mr. Murray bristled at the tone of Lassiter's voice, but he stepped aside to let them in. He led them to the kitchen table, upon which sat a half-assembled Makarov pistol. This last part surprised Lassiter, as that particular gun was a Vietnamese service weapon. Considering how much Mr. Murray seemed to hate "gooks" he wondered why he'd have such a weapon rather than an American M1911. He questioned Mr. Murray about it, who once again broke out into a grin.

"Took it off one of them gooks in the war," he bragged. He held the gun up to the kitchen light and examined it carefully. "Shot 'em right through the head with my own gun and snatched it from his holster. Stupid thing didn't even know what hit 'em."

Lassiter noticed O'Hara shudder at these last words, but he remained stoic. He would've done the same thing to any of the Iraqis he had encountered. Probably more. Mr. Murray placed the gun back on the table and looked up expectantly, waiting to be interrogated.

"Well, ask your questions. I ain't got all day."

Lassiter cleared his throat to ask him where he was the night Daniel Choi was murdered but was interrupted by a young whiny voice from upstairs.

"Dad? Have you seen my wallet?" A young boy with crew cut auburn hair and a strong jawline bounded down the stairs. He was tall and lanky, much like Lassiter himself. When he saw the detectives, he froze on the bottom step, his mouth slightly agape.

"Who are these guys, Dad?" he asked hesitantly.

"Detectives, Matthew," Mr. Murray explained. "Go back to your room. I'm sure your wallet is hiding somewhere in all those piles of dirty laundry."

Matthew gratefully turned to leave but O'Hara cut in. "Actually, Matthew, we have some questions for you too, if you wouldn't mind staying.

Matthew rubbed his arm self-consciously. "Oh, uh, yeah sure. Whatever." He inched his way into a seat next to his father and looked down at the table. Mr. Murray took no notice of his son's strange behavior and returned his attention to the detectives.

Detective Lassiter restarted his interrogation. "Where were you on the night of April 21, Mr. Murray?"

Mr. Murray placed his index finger on his chin in mock thoughtfulness and replied sarcastically, "Let's see, which fancy banquet had I been invited to that night?"

"This isn't a joke, Mr. Murray."

He rolled his eyes. "I was here in this very kitchen, cleaning my gun like I do every night."

"Can anyone confirm that?"

Mr. Murray slapped his son on the back. "Matthew here'll tell ya. He was upstairs in his room all night, studying for a math test which he ended up acing."

Lassiter turned his attention to Matthew, who had slouched a few inches down in his seat. "Did you actually witness your father cleaning his weapon?"

Matthew shifted uneasily. "Of-of course I did."

Lassiter and O'Hara shared a knowing glance. This kid is lying. O'Hara tried. "Are you sure, Matthew?"

Matthew nodded.

"Okay. Now let me ask you some questions. Where were you on the night of April 21?"

Mr. Murray exasperatedly shook his head. "I already told you idiots that Matthew was in his room all night studying!"

Lassiter held up a hand. "Calm down, sir. These are just routine questions and if you let us ask them, we'll be out of here in no time."

Mr. Murray's frustration did not ebb away, but he leaned back in his seat.

O'Hara asked the question again. "Where were you on the night of April 21, Matthew?"

Matthew looked down at his hands, then at O'Hara, then at his hands again. Lassiter could feel the table vibrate from the kid's spastically bouncing leg.

Lassiter knew that the kid was the murderer-there was guilt all over his face. But he didn't feel the same loathing toward this kid as he did toward the numerous other murderers he'd nabbed over the years. The difference was, he could relate to this kid. He knew what it was like to have a brother die in combat. He'd watch twenty-two of his own brothers die.

He also knew what it was like to reach a breaking point. A point where you just said "Screw it" and began dishing out punishment to the world the way it had dished it out to you. The point where you realized that you couldn't just sit back anymore and let the world take another person you loved. He looked at O'Hara, studying her. She exuded confidence. He wondered what he would do without her, especially at times like these, when the only way to get a confession was through the soft yet firm proddings of a woman. What would she do if he reached his breaking point? Would she be there for him? Would she be frightened or disgusted? Would she still want to be his partner?

Where is my breaking point?

Lassiter shook himself from his thoughts just as Matthew broke down into tears and screamed, "I did it! I killed that guy!"