There he stopped, observing the scene before him. The room was moderately large, with a mismatched scattering of dented and scarred desks. The lighting was fluorescent, accompanied by some daylight through a row of high, smudged windows. The floors were damaged and worn linoleum, the painted cinderblock walls plastered with charts, rows of clipboards, more framed photographs and posters, and multiple bulletin boards, all attempting to hide a paint job of queasy industrial green. The air was filled with ringing phones, general conversation, and, in an almost incongruous throwback to a previous era, the sound of typewriters. As in the hallway outside, there were boxes piled everywhere: along the walls, under the windows, between doors. The place looked like a moving company on a lunch break, except he knew from past experience that few of these boxes had been moved in years.
There were five men sitting at the odd assortment of desks in the middle of the floor, none of whom paid him any attention.
"Help you?" a voice asked from his right.
He turned and saw a civilian employee sitting at a workstation equipped with the room's most modern computer.
"Yeah. I'm looking for Detective Ogden."
The computer operator called out to a man working near one of the windows-tall, broad-shouldered, with close-cropped gray hair, looking comfortable enough that the entire precinct house might have been built around him. Ogden was speaking quietly on the phone, reading from an open file before him. He glanced up, saw the assistant point to Willy with raised eyebrows, and waved Willy over, gesturing to the wooden chair beside his desk. One of its slats was missing.
"Thanks," Willy muttered, and crossed the room, noticing as he did so the flickered glances of the men he passed, taking inventory.
A tiny glimmer of gold from Ogden's sport coat caught Willy's eye as he sat down: a small lapel pin in the shape of a brontosaurus. Willy studied the other officer more carefully, thinking back to Joe Gunther in Vermont.
That pin identified Ward Ogden as a "dinosaur," one of an elite few, the NYPD version of a Knight of the Round Table-skilled, battle-scarred, savvy, with an elephantine memory and enviable contacts. Dinosaurs were career detectives, classified First Grade and thus pulling down a lieutenant's salary, but preferring to stay on the streets, catching cases, and given those rare pins by their respectful peers. For the most part, they were older, nearing retirement, had often gone to the academy with people who were now chiefs and sometimes even the commissioner, and were the most seasoned of what the detective bureau could offer. But they were more than that. It wasn't just age that made a dinosaur. There was a mystique behind the lapel pin. These people had true bearing within the department. They'd successfully closed headline cases, sometimes several of them, with dignity and grace, paying homage to all who'd helped them, and avoiding the publicity that their more politically minded, upwardly mobile brethren so eagerly courted. Dinosaurs, like the brontosauruses chosen to symbolize them, were quiet giants.
More cynically, Willy also knew, a helpful dinosaur was worth money in the bank, while the pissed-off version would make staying in New York a waste of time.
Ogden hung up the phone and stuck out his hand to shake Willy's. "Detective Kunkle?"
Willy was surprised. "How'd you know?"
Ogden laughed. "Lucky guess. I'm Ward Ogden. Thanks for coming by. I'm sorry for your loss. Would you like a cup of coffee?"
Willy shook his head. "No, thanks. Had one already."
Ogden pointed his chin at the mug on his desk. "Smart man. I drink way too much of the stuff. My wife, Maria, says it'll be the end of me in the long run. Probably right, too, although I tell her she hangs around doctors too much. She's a nurse. When did you get in?"
Willy proceeded carefully. "Last night. I didn't want to waste time."
Ogden understood. "So, you've been by Bellevue already?"
Willy watched the other man's eyes, looking for what he might be after. In this kind of conversation, a man with Ogden's experience didn't ask questions he didn't have the answers to, especially when they were already part of the record somewhere. No more than he had to rely on any "lucky guess" to know who Willy was. Willy decided to call him on it and establish a bit of his own credibility.
"Just like it says in their report."
Ogden smiled slightly. "What's it like being a cop in Vermont?"
"Not so intense. We get to spend more time on our cases. The press covers each and every one, though, the money's lousy, and turf's still a big deal."
Ogden nodded. "Yeah. I guess every homicide is front page news-everybody wants a piece of it."
"Every homicide, every robbery, damn near every fender bender." Willy had questions, too, and he dearly wanted the answers, but for once in his life, he was going to let the other party lead the dance.
Ogden sat back in his chair. "Well, more to the point, I was sorry to be the one to break the news of your ex-wife's death. That must have been a shock."
Willy kept it short and honest. "Yes, it was."
"Had you two kept in touch at all?"
"No. It wasn't the friendliest of breakups." He wondered why he'd volunteered that bit. It was none of Ogden's business.
"That's too bad. Marriage and cops are a tough mix."
"You been divorced?"
The older man looked at him before responding, and Willy realized he'd broken an unstated ground rule. This was not a level playing field, despite the professional courtesy.
"How long ago was that?" Ogden asked.
Willy felt himself bristling on the inside, and felt doubly angry. Ever so gently, Ogden was pushing him around. Successfully.
He tried the same approach of a minute ago. "Like it says in the divorce papers you have: twelve years."
Ogden looked solicitous. "I apologize, Detective Kunkle. Is this a sore subject?"
Normally, Willy would have called the man an asshole and walked out of the room. But that was partly the point of the question. Ogden was taking his measure.
Willy took a deep breath and admitted, "I was a drunk back then. I hit her once. And that was the end of it. She was right to leave. I was a loser."
Ogden shook his head gently. "You've quit drinking, you were wounded on duty, and now you're on a topnotch squad. Could be you're being a little tough on yourself."
It was meant as a compliment, even though it confirmed that Ogden had checked him out. But there was more to Willy's past than what was available through a computer check and some phone calls. And that gap made Willy think resentfully of Joe Gunther again, the man who'd had more to do with Willy's upward mobility than he believed he had himself.
"Could be Vermont's like a cop version of kindergarten," he blurted out resentfully. "Doesn't take a wizard to get ahead. Even a gimpy drunk can do it."
Ogden's expression didn't change, but his eyes stayed on Willy's, and Willy felt all the more foolish for his outburst. He wished he could go back outside and at least take a walk around the block to clear his head. Back home, he routinely took people apart during interrogations, while never laying a hand on them. He'd humiliate them, cajole them, embarrass them, almost pummel them with language. And here he was, rising to every bait Ogden put before him, including the ones Ogden wasn't aware of.
"What d'you have on Mary's death?" Willy finally asked, as much to move on as to get an answer.
Ogden's face softened. "The ME left a message for me. I got it this morning. They did the autopsy right after you ID'd the body. There's a detailed final protocol and a tox report that won't come through for weeks, but absent any signs of criminality there, they're confirming what we've thought all along: apparent heroin overdose."