A low, uneasy murmur ran along the rows, the sound three hundred middle school kids make when a classmate gets singled out in front of an assembly.

Lieutenant Easton Wyler stood right in the middle of the basketball court at a long folding table under a navy-blue banner that said COURAGE STARTS HERE.

He straightened the crisp cuffs of his white dress uniform shirt, glanced at his gold wristwatch, and smoothed the creases in his dark trousers.

When the green door swung closed behind me, Wyler turned his head toward the side wall.

He caught the black stenciled MERRICK across the left pocket of my work uniform.