Sergeant Ryan shouldered his way through the double door that led to the detectives’ bullpen in Homicide North. A shirt-sleeved detective, his shoulder holster strapped under his arm, stood talking to a thin, nervous-looking man who was answering the detective’s questions in a low voice. He had “stool pigeon” written all over him.
Ryan wasted an incurious glance on the informer, walked to the waist-high gate that separated the outer section from the portion of the room containing rows of unpainted desks, back to back. Some of the desks were occupied by shirt-sleeved detectives, laboriously punching out reports with one finger on battered typewriters of ancient vintage. At others, the occupants sat with chairs tilted back, heels hooked on the corner of the desk, gossiping with their neighb
