The woman ran her gaze over the carnage left by the short burst of gunfire that had followed her into the Commuter. The stench of death hung heavily in the cabin. Betty Tanaka lay sprawled across the bench seat, her blood soaking the cushions and splattering the wall and window behind it. Sitting on the floor by her side, oblivious to his own wound, Jiro held his dead wife’s hand and wept. Mr. Toragama was a huddled, lifeless lump in the main aisle.