By the time he finished describing a weapon that had gone to the curb eight years ago, he had made his lie far too specific to survive contact with a single radio call.

“The iron poker,” he said, with a flash of impatience, as if I were being slow.

“The long one, with the pointed end and the black handle.

From the stand by her fireplace.

She swung it right at my head — I’m lucky to be standing here.”

“Captain Doyle,” I said, without taking my eyes off Ronan.