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with no windows and every square inch of availablefloor space covered with manila files and battered law books.
    I handed him my gold-embossed Drake & Sweeney card, which he studied with a deep frown. Then he gave it back to me, and said, “Slumming, aren’t you?”
    “No,” I said, taking the card.
    “What do you want?”
    “I come in peace. Mr. Hardy’s bullet almost got me.”
    “You were in the room with him?”
    “Yep.”
    He took a deep breath and lost the frown. He pointed to the only chair on my side. “Have a seat. But you might get dirty.”
    We both sat, my knees touching his desk, my hands thrust deep into the pockets of my overcoat. A radiator rattled behind him. We looked at each other, then looked away. It was my visit, I had to say something. But he spoke first.
    “Guess you had a bad day, huh?” he said, his raspy voice lower and almost compassionate.
    “Not as bad as Hardy’s. I saw your name in the paper, that’s why I came.”
    “I’m not sure what I’m supposed to do.”
    “Do you think the family will sue? If so, then maybe I should leave.”
    “There’s no family, not much of a lawsuit. I could make some noise with it. I figure the cop who shot him is white, so I could squeeze a few bucks out of the city, probably get a nuisance settlement. But that’s not myidea of fun.” He waved his hand over the desk. “God knows I got enough to do.”
    “I never saw the cop,” I said, realizing it for the first time.
    “Forget about a lawsuit. Is that why you’re here?”
    “I don’t know why I’m here. I went back to my desk this morning like nothing happened, but I couldn’t think straight. I took a drive. Here I am.”
    He shook his head slowly, as if he was trying to understand this. “You want some coffee?”
    “No thanks. You knew Mr. Hardy pretty well.”
    “Yeah, DeVon was a regular.”
    “Where is he now?”
    “Probably in the city morgue at D.C. General.”
    “If there’s no family, what happens to him?”
    “The city buries the unclaimed. On the books it’s called a pauper’s funeral. There’s a cemetery near RFK Stadium where they pack ’em in. You’d be amazed at the number of people who die unclaimed.”
    “I’m sure I would.”
    “In fact, you’d be amazed at every aspect of homeless life.”
    It was a soft jab, and I was not in the mood to spar. “Do you know if he had AIDS?”
    He cocked his head back, looked at the ceiling, and rattled that around for a few seconds. “Why?”
    “I was standing behind him. The back of his head was blown off. I got a face full of blood. That’s all.”
    With that, I crossed the line from a bad guy to just an average white guy.
    “I don’t think he had AIDS.”
    “Do they check them when they die?”
    “The homeless?”
    “Yes.”
    “Most of the time, yes. DeVon, though, died by other means.”
    “Can you find out?”
    He shrugged and thawed some more. “Sure,” he said reluctantly, and took his pen from his pocket. “Is that why you’re here? Worried about AIDS?”
    “I guess it’s one reason. Wouldn’t you be?”
    “Sure.”
    Abraham stepped in, a small, hyper man of about forty who had public interest lawyer stamped all over him. Jewish, dark beard, horn-rimmed glasses, rumpled blazer, wrinkled khakis, dirty sneakers, and the weighty aura of one trying to save the world.
    He did not acknowledge me, and Green was not one for social graces. “They’re predicting a ton of snow,” Green said to him. “We need to make sure every possible shelter is open.”
    “I’m working on it,” Abraham snapped, then abruptly left.
    “I know you’re busy,” I said.
    “Is that all you wanted? A blood check.”
    “Yeah, I guess. Any idea why he did it?”
    He removed his red glasses, wiped them with a tissue, then rubbed his eyes. “He was mentally ill, like a lot of these people. You spend years on the streets, soaked with booze, stoned on crack, sleeping in thecold, getting kicked around by cops and