byI chased more wild leads all through another hot July day and got back to the squad-room late and depressed. The case was going badly for me, but I had done all I knew how to do. The pressure was starting to build up.
The air conditioning was out again. The squad-room was sticky and smelled like a stale cigar. A few other boys stopped typing reports and mumbled embarrassed greetings. Someone even said “Hi,” then hesitated before adding “Lieutenant,” as if it were an uncertain afterthought. I hung my jacket over the back of my chair, rolled up soggy shirtsleeves and checked the memo spike on my desk. Nothing, as usual, but negative reports; and a note to call my wife. My boy, Jamie, would forge into the act. He would ask, “Dad, how come you haven’t solved the murders yet?”
I could tell
