McGonnigal had the engine running. He took off with an ostentatious squeal of rubber before I even closed the door all the way. I put on the seat belt. “You ought to wear yours if you’re going to drive like that,” I told him. “Insurance people and police—the two groups who see the most car accidents and the two you never see with seat belts.”

McGonnigal didn’t answer. In fact conversation flagged all the way downtown. I tried to interest him in the Cubs’ chances with Lee Elia and Dallas Green at the helm. He didn’t want to talk about it. “I hope you’re not a Yankee fan, Sergeant. If you are, you’re going to have to arrest me to get me into the same car with you.”

His only response was to drive faster. I kept up a monologue on the perfidies of the Yankees until we got to Twelfth Street, forbearing to comment on the fact that he was driving too fast for normal road conditions. He parked the car two feet from the curb and swung himself out, slamming the door behind him. I followed him into the back door of the Twelfth Street station.

“By the way, Sergeant, did you ever find anyone in the Kelvin murder?”

“It’s still open,” he said stiffly.

Mallory rated a tiny office in the maze making up the homicide division. The back wall was covered with a map of the city, precinct boundaries outlined in heavy black, high crime areas marked in red. Mallory was on the phone when we came in. I went over to look at my neighborhood. We had a very high homicide rate. There were a lot of rapes there, too. Maybe I would be better off in Melrose Park with six children.

Bobby hung up the phone and picked up a stack of papers. He put on his wire-rimmed glasses and started reading reports. “Come over here and sit down, Vicki.”

I sat on the far side of his metal desk while he continued reading. “You were at Plymouth Steel this morning when Clayton Phillips’s body was discovered.”

I didn’t say anything and he said sharply. “You were there, weren’t you?”

“I thought you were making a statement, not asking a question. Of course I was there—I called the police and I didn’t make any secret of who I was.”

“Don’t get smart with me. What were you doing down there?”

“I put Phillips’s body in the hold Sunday morning and I wanted to see people’s faces when it came out on the conveyor belt.”

Bobby slapped the desk top with his open palm. “Vicki, you’re this close to going to jail as a material witness.” He held up his thumb and middle finger to indicate a very tiny distance. “Tell me what you were doing down there.”