The fact that no riot broke out would amaze police and concert officials for years to come.

Although Jim could no longer claim he had never been arrested before, nothing prepared him for the evening he spent.

When the police arrived in the dressing room they found Karen unconscious and Jim sitting up, trying to brush the remains of Jeff’s skull off of his hand. One officer turned away, unable to restrain himself from vomiting, but the other, while wide-eyed, managed to remain with his wits intact, pulling his revolver out of its holster.

“Freeze, Mr. Christopher,” he said.

Jim looked up at the officer, still amazed at what he had done. “I can’t freeze if I throw up,” he responded. “Do you mind?”

The policeman didn’t move. “You are under arrest, Mr. Christopher. Would you please lie face down on the floor?”

Jim looked around the bloody room. “May I stand to be handcuffed instead? I’d rather not put my face into this glop.”

“It’s nice to see you being so cooperative, Mr. Christopher, but my partner seems unable to help and reinforcements are not here yet. For my own safety, I’m afraid I must insist.”

Jim sighed. “I see. Well, you have the gun, and I am the suspect. You win, but I don’t like it.”

“I understand that, but I’m left with no choice.”

Jim nodded. He brushed his hand off as best he could, then rolled over as instructed. He was handcuffed and helped upright and blood covered the front of his pants and shirt.

As he was being led to the waiting car, Jim saw A.J. being held by three policemen. “See to Karen!” he shouted. “She doesn’t look too good!”

A.J. nodded subtly. Jim saw the move and decided to worry about himself; Karen would be looked after.

Jim was lead to the waiting car. He apologized to the policemen for causing a mess in their car but didn’t feel he meant it. On the ride over he wondered if he had been read Miranda. He had, he decided, but he could not remember by whom.

At the police station he was searched and given some clean prison clothing which Jim preferred to his blood-stained concert clothing, which had begun to smell. He was left alone in a cell for several hours before being led to a conference room to be questioned by the police.

The room, unlike television had lead him to believe, was well lit. Jim sat at a table in the center of the room. There was a window along one wall with a door at one end. The handcuffs were gone, and Jim felt that his jittery nerves had calmed enough for him to speak regularly.

However, no matter how calm he acted, the fact that a few hours earlier he had killed a man out of rage was not sinking in.

A policeman and another man eventually came into the room. The officer stood by the door, on guard, while the other sat at the table across from Jim.

“I’m inspector McClellan,” he said.

“Inspector,” Jim replied.

McClellan sat a folder on the table and opened it to a blank page to take notes. “I’d like to ask you a few questions about the whole affair, if I may,” he said.

“Have I been charged with anything?”

“Not yet, no.”

“Then ask away.”

“For the record, your name?”

“Jim Christopher.”

“Birthdate?”

“August 9, 1964.”

“Address of residence?”

“2431 Kenter Canyon Road, Brentwood California, 90049.”

“Are you a U.S. citizen?”

“Yes.”

McClellan coughed. “Okay, Mr. Christopher, the next questions regard the incident in question.”

“I notice you didn’t call it a crime,” Jim responded.

“We’re trying to decide that, Mr. Christopher. That’s what this is about.”

Jim nodded. “I see.”

“Good. Were you familiar with the deceased?”

“Vaguely.”

“Can you identify him, please?”

“His name was Jeff Soszynski.”

“How did you know him?”

“I didn’t really know him. We’d met maybe five times.”

“Who was he to you, then?”

“He was the ex-husband of my current girlfriend.”

“And she is...”

“Dr. Karen Price.”

“The woman found unconscious in the room?”

“Yes. How is she?”

McClellan looked down uncomfortably. “I wouldn’t know,” he said. “I can however tell you that she is being questioned by authorities at her hospital room. Your brother has also been interviewed.”

Jim sighed. “I see. And thank you.”

“Describe the incident to me, in your own words.”

“I entered the dressing room to find Jeff holding a gun to Karen’s head. He threatened me at first when I walked in, and then told me his intention was to kill Karen. Just as he put the gun to her forehead to pull the trigger, A.J., my brother, walked in distracting him. I took advantage of this and hit Jeff.”

“What did you hit him with?”

“My right hand.”

McClellan tried to hide his surprise. “How many times?” he asked.

“Just once.”

McClellan’s cover faded to disbelief. “Are you trying to tell me you created that mess with one punch?”

“Hey,” Jim protested, “I don’t understand how. Maybe it was adrenalin - I simply don’t know how I did it. The reason there was gore all over my hand is because it had been stuck inside Jeff’s skull. I had to pull his brains out just to get my fucking hand free.”

“That’s sick.”

“You have no idea how much so.”

“Have you studied martial arts?”

“No.”

“Boxing? Wrestling?”

“No on both counts.”

McClellan let out a long, low whistle and shook his head. “Why did you kill him?”

“He tried to kill my girlfriend, so I acted in her defense. I hadn’t meant to kill him.”

“What was your intention?”

“To end the situation. My first reaction to someone trying to kill my girlfriend is to beat the shit out of them. My intention was to keep him from killing us.”

“What is your opinion of what has transpired?”

“Deplorable, but unavoidable.”

There was a knock at the door, which opened as a uniformed policeman stuck his head in the door. “Inspector,” he said, “you have a call on line six. Mr. Christopher, your counsel is here.”

McClellan excused himself as Jim asked for some privacy with his legal counsel. The officer left as A.J. and Paul Cynic entered.

“You look like shit,” A.J. said.

“Gee, thanks,” Jim replied. “Okay Paul, what’s the story?”

“Better than it looks,” Paul answered. “They’re not going to charge you with murder, that much I do know. The hinge appears to be on the self defense angle. With a little luck you’ll walk away scott-free.”

“Luck? The motherfucker tried to kill us! How can it not be considered self defense?”

“You’re not getting good publicity, my friend. Most newspapers around the country are preparing headlines about the killing. It’s a good thing there wasn’t a riot at the concert. Also that there appear to be no living relatives for that asshole, or I’d be worried about a lawsuit.”

“Imagine my relief.”

“There is some bad news,” A.J. said. “The record company and the sponsors have pulled out from the tour. We have to cancel it.”

Jim stood and shouted “Shit!” as he paced around the room. “Isn’t there something we could do?”

“Afraid not,” Paul replied. “The sponsors have already held a press conference announcing the pull out. You guys got screwed.”

“Hate to say it,” A.J. added, “but he’s right.”

“Jim,” Paul continued, “I may have trouble keeping the brass from shelving the Blue Shift album. Right now we need to drop it and get you sprung.”

Jim stopped pacing and sat down, sighing. “Fuck,” he whispered, shaking his head.

“I know. A.J.’s right, you do look like shit.”

Jim looked up. “All right Paul, what’s the next step?”

“I need to find out what they plan to charge you with. What was that inspector’s name?”

“McClellan.”

“Thanks. I’ll go speak with him, and then I’ll be back to plan the next move.” Paul left A.J. and Jim alone in the room.

A.J. sat on the table. “How you doing?” he asked.

“I’m surviving,” Jim replied. “I could use a shower and a long soak in my hot tub though. How is Karen?”

“Asleep at Larry’s place as of three hours ago. Doctors gave her some sedatives and she seems to be suffering from shock, but she’ll be okay.”

“The police question her?”

“Yes. Me too. I think it will be all right.”

“Good.” Jim let out a long breath. “Now for the kicker. How did I do it?”

A.J. shook his head. “It was a lot like our last experiment. You remember what I said about overload?”

Jim nodded.

“You got an overload of fear off of Karen. So did Jeff - Karen described him as jittery in her deposition. Fear is one hell of a stress, and it acted in conjunction with whatever you were thinking in your second line of thoughts. How do you fight?”

“By thinking of the punch landing several inches beyond where it really does.” Jim looked down. “So that was it?”

“Yes. With Karen in the room to amplify, things happened just like you spelled it out. Pardon the way I say it, but it was a deadly one-two punch.”

“We both killed him?”

“Over dramatic, Jim.”

“But in essence true.”

“In essence.”

“Shit. Does Karen know?”

“Yeah. She took it a bit worse than you are; that’s why the sedatives. The doctors thought she was hysterical.”

Jim rubbed his eyes. “Sorry about the tour, A.J. It was going to be fun.”

A.J. shrugged. “Fuck it. I’ll live. We’ll both live.” He stood up and walked around the room. “To be honest though, I’ve been trying to think of a way to make the whole thing positive from an artistic point of view, but I can’t think of anything.”

“Oh come on,” Jim said, “that’s easy. Pull the album from the stores.”

“Excuse me? Kill the album?”

“That’s right. It’ll become a collector’s item, like Prince’s Black Album was.”

“I get it,” A.J. said, excited. “We wait a while, say a few years, then release it again.”

“You got it. Maybe even re-record it.”

“I like it. Besides, it gives me an excuse to keep Carrie around.”

Jim laughed for the first time in many hours. “You getting to like her?”

“Yeah, I think so.”

“Does she know?”

“No. I’m not as serious as you and Karen seem to be.”

“Seriousness had nothing to do with it. Neither of us had any choice.”

A.J. chuckled. “I’ll grant you that.”

There was a knock at the door and Inspector McClellan and Paul Cynic returned to the room. McClellan sat at the table, while Paul stood with his hands clasped by the door.

“The good news,” the Inspector began, “is that we feel you acted in self defense, and you won’t be charged in the death of Mr. Soszynski. You’ll need to leave us with a way to reach you if we have any further questions.”

“I’ll be home,” Jim said.

“Good. You’ll also be required to register your hands as weapons. After a punch like that one, no one will believe otherwise. Other than that you’re free to go.”

Jim let out the breath he was holding. After the buildup he had been given, this was a relief. It was A.J. who asked the next question.

“What’s the bad news?”

“Bad news?” Jim asked.

McClellan nodded. “I’m afraid there is some,” he said. “You’re a free man, but you’re wearing prison garb. We can’t let you leave wearing that.”

Jim looked at the clothing he was wearing. “Did anyone think to clean what I came here in?”

“We were considering a ritual burn,” Paul said.

Jim nodded. “I see. Inspector, would anyone mind if I stayed for a couple of hours?”

“Not really,” McClellan said, “as long as you stay out of the way. The reporters outside are a pain in the ass though.”

“Sorry about that. I’ll handle them when I leave. Paul, could you go to my hotel room and get me a fresh change of clothing?”

Paul nodded. As he turned to leave, A.J. caught up with him and began informing him about the plan to pull the R & R Project album. They were outside the room before the conversation became heated.

Jim clasped his hands together. “Well, Inspector, it seems we still have some time together. Does anyone in your precinct house want an obscene autograph?”