He probably topped out at one hundred and twenty pounds. Skinny, white, early twenties, about five feet nine inches tall. Closely cropped black hair, about three days’ worth of whiskers on his face. He wore jeans and a dark blue long-sleeved shirt with a button-down collar. He scanned the room, his eyes darting nervously. Duckworth stood up.

“Mr. Gaffney?”

The man looked at Duckworth, blinked. “That’s me.”

Duckworth waved him in, pointed to the chair next to his desk. “Why don’t you have a seat.”

Brian Gaffney, holding his hands together in front of him, leaning over slightly, as though trying to close in on himself, sat down. He kept looking around the room, up at the ceiling, like someone entering a cave, checking for bats clinging to the roof.

“Mr. Gaffney?”

Gaffney’s fearful eyes settled on Duckworth. “Yes?”

“I’m a detective.” He had a pen in his hand, ready to make some notes. “Can you spell your name for me, Mr. Gaffney?”

Gaffney did so.

“And your middle name?”

“Arthur,” he said. “Are we safe here?”

“I’m sorry?”

Gaffney’s head movements were brief, quick twitches, like a bird taking in its surroundings. He lowered his voice to a whisper as he leaned in closer to the detective. “They might still be watching me.”

Duckworth put a hand lightly on the man’s arm. Gaffney examined it, as though not sure what it was.

“You’re okay here,” Duckworth assured him, thinking, only Bayliss would see this man as a source of amusement. Whatever Gaffney was afraid of might be imaginary, but the fear Duckworth saw in the man’s eyes was the real deal.

Gaffney shivered. “You need to turn the heat up.”

The room was already in the high seventies. The A/C should have kicked in, but had not.

Duckworth stood, slipped off his jacket, and draped it over the man’s shoulders. “How’s that?”

Gaffney nodded.

“You want a coffee?” the detective asked. “That might warm you up.”

Quietly, Gaffney said, “Okay.”

“What do you take?’

“I . . . It doesn’t matter, long as it’s hot.”

Duckworth crossed the room to the table where they kept the coffee machine, filled a reasonably clean mug, put in one sugar and a powdered creamer, and brought it back to the man.

Gaffney wrapped both hands around the mug, brought it to his lips and took a sip as Duckworth sat back down and picked up his pen again. “What’s your date of birth, Mr. Gaffney?”

“April sixteenth, 1995.” Gaffney watched as Duckworth scribbled things down. “I was born in New Haven.”

“Current address?”

“They might be here,” Gaffney said, lowering his voice again. “They might be cloaking themselves in human form.”

Duckworth’s pen stopped moving. “Who’s they, Mr. Gaffney?”

Gaffney blinked and said, “I live at 87 Hunter Street. Unit 201.”

Duckworth felt a touch of mental whiplash. “That’s an apartment?”

“Yeah.”

“You live alone, Mr. Gaffney?”

“Yes.” Another nod. Gaffney’s eyes were now fixed on the banana on Duckworth’s desk.

“What do you do for a living?”