The next morning, we had, shall we say, a one-sided conversation with our beloved Chief of Detectives, Horace Bloom. Or–to put it more succinctly–for two straight hours Horace screamed, yelled, fumed, and threatened us with a wagging finger pushed up our noses and his face only inches away from our ears. He was past the point of just being angry. He was furious. His voice thundered with wrath and threats of bodily injury. I believe the Book of Profanity was re-written about a half dozen times. The veins on his forehead threatened to explode. His eyes became bloodshot from his climbing blood pressure. The three of us–myself, Frank, and Lt. Yankovich–stood in front of Yank’s desk in his office and stared at the clock face on the wall behind and above Yank’s desk and said nothing.
Why the he
