“Maybe I don’t want the edge taken off my rather stunning neurotic behavior. Maybe I believe that’s what makes me such a damn fine reporter, and without it my work would be pedestrian shit, and then I’d be nothing in the eyes of Don Graham and company.”

I sipped the day- or two-day-old coffee. “Except that if you had a couple of kids, you could never be nothing.”

Zachary squinted one eye shut and smacked the left side of his lips. He was a very animated thinker.

“Except if the kids didn’t love or even like me very much.”

“And you don’t consider yourself lovable? But actually you are, Zachary. Trust me. You’re just fine. Your kids would adore the hell out of you, and you would adore them. You’d have a mutual adoration society.”

He finally laughed and clapped his hands loudly. We usually laugh a good bit when we’re together.

“So will you marry me and have my children?” He grinned at me over the top of his steaming cup. “This is a pickup joint, after all. Singles from the Bureau of Labor Statistics and the Government Printing Office come here, hoping to bed staffers from Kennedy’s or Glenn’s.”

“It’s the best offer I’ve had all day. Who called this meeting, anyway? Why are we here at this dive, drinking really bad coffee?”

Taylor slurped his. “Coffee’s fairly strong, isn’t it? That’s something to be thankful for. What’s up, Alex?”

“You interested in another Pulitzer?” I asked him.

He pretended to think it over, but his eyes lit up. “Well, I might be. You see, I need to balance the look of my mantelpiece. One of my dates told me that. Never did see the young woman again. She worked for Gingrich, as a matter of fact.”

For the next forty-five minutes or so, I told Zachary exactly what I thought was up. I told him about the 114 unsolved murders in Southeast and parts of Northeast D.C. I detailed the contrasting investigations of the cases of Frank Odenkirk and the German tourist in Georgetown, and those of the black teenagers Tori Glover and Marion Cardinal. I filled him in on the chief of detectives, his proclivities and his biases, or at least my perception of them. I even admitted that I disliked Pittman intensely, and Zachary knows I’m not that way about too many folks who don’t murder for a living.

He shook his head back and forth, back and forth, while I talked, and didn’t stop when I was finished. “Not that I doubt any of what you’re saying, but do you have any documentation?” he asked.

“You’re such a stickler for details,” I said. “Reporters are such wusses when you come right down to it.”

I reached down under my seat and lifted up two thick manila folders. His eyes brightened.