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broken pencils lies, and then grabs hold of the one from behind his ear. He must keep a supply just for these occasions. He chews on it for a few seconds before turning toward me and snapping it in half.
    “I’m sorry, Joe. You’ll have to excuse my language.”
    “That’s okay. You said victims. Does that mean there was more than one?”
    “Another woman was found in the trunk of her car, parked up the victim’s driveway.”
    I exhale loudly. “Gosh, Detective Schroder, I guess that’s why you’re the detective and I’m not. I would never have looked in the trunk. Even now, she’d still be in there, alone and everything.” Like the detective, I’m shaking my fists now too, but unlike the detective I don’t have a supply of pencils to start breaking. “Gee, I would have let everybody down,” I add under my breath but loud enough for him to hear.
    “Hey, Joe, don’t beat yourself up. Even I didn’t look in the car. We didn’t even notice the second victim until this morning.”
    He’s lying. His rugged face is looking at me with pity.
    “Really?”
    He nods. “Sure.”
    “Can I get you some coffee, Detective Schroder?”
    “Well, okay, Joe, but only if it isn’t any hassle.”
    “No hassle. Black, one sugar, right?”
    “Two sugars, Joe.”
    “Right.” I make him remind me every time I offer. “Can I leave my briefcase on the table here, Detective Schroder?”
    “Go ahead. What do you carry in that thing anyway?”
    I shrug and look away. “You know, Detective Schroder, documents and stuff.”
    “Thought so.”
    Bullshit. The bastard figures I have lunch in there, and maybe a comic book. Nonetheless, I walk from the room and into the corridor, where I move among dozens of offices and officers and detectives. I head past several cubicles, and straight to the coffee machine. It’s easy to use, but I make it look more complicated than it is. I’m thirsty, so I make myself one first and quickly drink it since it’s not that hot and because it tastes like dirt. Most of the other cops nod at me. It’s that dumb silent greeting that’s in fashion at the moment—the one where you nod abruptly and raise your eyebrows—and starts to get uncomfortable when you keep passing the same people. Then you have to make idle chitchat. Mondays are okay, because they ask how your weekend was. Fridays are okay too, because they ask what you have planned for the weekend. But the days in between really are a bastard.
    I pour Schroder his coffee. Black. Two sugars.
    For the last few months, the police station has been alive with the hustle and bustle of stressed and anxious detectives. The immediate day of a homicide and the day after are when that hustling and bustling are at their greatest. Meetings are held every hour of the day. Statements are pored over by eager eyes, looking for vital clues or discrepancies from anybody who knew one of the victims. Information is gathered only to become forgotten evidence the moment another killing takes place. After all these killings, they still have nothing. I actually feel bad for them in some ways—all this never-ending work that produces nothing. During the day, reporters keep showing up every time they hear a new piece of evidence has been uncovered, a new witness spoken to, or—their personal favorite—when a new victim has been found. The latter ensures them more sales of newspapers and of revenue from adsas the bulletins go to air. Reporters armed with microphones fire questions at anybody who looks like a policeman as they come and go. Cameras are rolling. All this and they ignore the one man who can give them the inside scoop.
    I carry the coffee back into the conference room. By now, a few other detectives are milling around inside. I can feel the anguish in the air—the desperation to catch the man doing this to them and their city. The room smells like sweat and cheap aftershave. I hand Schroder his coffee with a smile. He thanks me. I pick up my