Forty-five minutes after the shooting
Forty-five minutes after the shootingForty-five minutes after the shootingThe gate in front of the Belamy house on Elm Street stood open; a big cop named Dalton filled the space. A kaleidoscopic-swirl of red and blue danced along the fence’s white pickets and across the cop’s expressionless face. Dalton scanned his surroundings looking for anyone who looked out of place, at the same time knowing whoever had pulled the trigger inside the house was probably long gone. Neighbors, some wrapped in blankets, others dressed in whatever they had picked up off the bedroom floor, were scattered in the surrounding yards and on the sidewalk across the street. Huddled in small groups, wearing masks of concern, it was largely the same group that had stood and watch
