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opinions that cops and crooks did not mutually share: Kling, on that Monday morning when he returned to work, found himself questioning these sex offenders with a rising sense of revulsion. Their names had been selected the morning before, and instructions had been left with the desk sergeant to have his uniformed force round them up for questioning first thing Monday morning. They were here now, a baker’s dozen of them in the squadroom or waiting outside on benches in the corridor. Carella and Kling were sharing the interrogations. There was not a single man in that squadroom who did not know he was there because a teenage girl had been found murdered and presumably sexually abused last Saturday night. The news had been in all the papers and on all the television shows. If you’re a sex offender, you get used to the fact that any time somebody so much as gets felt up in the subway, the cops’ll be around to talk to you about it. But this was a big one. This was a homicide.
    Kling started each of his interrogations with the exact same words. He told the man sitting opposite him why he was there, and he made certain the man knew he was not being charged with anything. A girl was found murdered, however, and there had been indications (he did not reveal which indications) thatsex may have been a contributing factor, and since the man sitting opposite him was a known offender, Kling would appreciate it if he could account for his whereabouts on Saturday night between the hours of 10:30 and 11:30. Each of the men invariably (and reasonably) protested that just because he’d once taken a fall for Sodomy Three or Rape Two or any one (or more) of the other eleven crimes listed under Article 130, this was no reason for the police to pick him up and drag him into the station house every time some little girl had her skirt lifted. There was such a thing as rehabilitation, you know, and it didn’t help a man to be constantly reminded of his past errors. Kling immediately apologized for a system that forced a man to carry forever the burden of his criminal record, but if the man could only understand that Kling was trying to establish his innocence rather than his guilt, why then, the man would simply excuse the inconvenience and answer the questions and go on about his business.
    Sure, the man would invariably say. Until the next time.
    But he answered the questions.
    The fifth man who approached Kling’s desk had black wavy hair and blue eyes. He was wearing a navy-blue jacket over a paleblue sports shirt. His trousers were a dark blue too, but they did not quite match the jacket. Jacket and trousers alike were rumpled, and there was a beard stubble on the man’s face. He pulled out the chair opposite Kling and sat immediately.
    “Mr. Donatelli?” Kling said.
    “Yes, sir,” Donatelli said. His voice was low. His pale-blue eyes looked at the filing cabinets, the water cooler, the electric fan, the dock on the squadroom wall, anything but Kling.
    “James Donatelli?”
    “Yes, sir.”
    “Mr. Donatelli,” Kling said, “have you got any idea why we asked you to come up here?”
    “Yes, sir, I suppose it has to do with the little girl who was killed,” Donatelli said.
    “That’s right,” Kling said.
    “I had nothing to do with that,” Donatelli said.
    “Good, I’m glad to hear it.”
    “You know,” Donatelli said, “a man takes one fall in his life on an offense of this nature, he’s right away listed as some kind of maniac. I had nothing to do with that girl’s murder, and I’m happy to be able to tell you that.”
    “That’s good, Mr. Donatelli, because no one’s accusing you of anything. I’m sorry we have to inconvenience you this way, but—”
    “That’s all right,” Donatelli said, and waved the apology aside with an open hand. “But what is it you want to know? I’d like to get this over with, I’ll be losing half a day’s pay as it is.”
    “Can you tell me where you were last Saturday