We sat there for hours. After a time, the two sheriff's deputies waiting out in the courtroom to take Luka back to his cell were replaced by two more. Luka's memory of the night did not rise from the depths of his alcoholic blackout in one piece, and I have to give my father credit for his excruciating patience. He walked that man through each flicker of memory; gingerly exploring, expounding, expanding on the fuzziest snapshots –– almost frame by frame bringing whole sequences of memory into clear focus until something resembling a narrative began to emerge. And then finally, the whole terrible story resurfaced like a body disposed of in the sea.
Here's my vision of what happened –– starting with Luka seeing the photos just a few hours earlier.
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