I asked the woman at the information desk where the police station was, and it turned out to be only three blocks south. I left my car where it was and hoofed it. There was a cool breeze coming in from the north, and my sports coat wasn’t up to the job of keeping me warm. I put my hands in my pockets and hunched my shoulders up, thinking that would help. It did not.

Unlike the library, the police services building lacked any architectural link to the past. It was a wide gray and black building devoid of personality. I went up to the main desk and asked whether Detective Cherry was in, and if so could I speak with him?

I got lucky. The woman on the desk said he was still in the building and would come out to see me in a few minutes. I kicked around the front lobby, half listened as some woman complained at the desk about a barking dog. Two uniformed cops brought in an unruly drunk.

Then a bearded man in tattered jeans, T-shirt, and jean jacket approached me, and I wasn’t sure whether this was somebody who’d just been released after appearing in a lineup, or Cherry.

“Mr. Walker?” he said, extending a hand.

“That’s right,” I said. “Detective Cherry?”

“Yeah. Come on in.”

He led me down a couple of hallways, then into a small office. Cherry dropped into a metal and plastic chair behind a cluttered desk. I glanced at some mug shots on the wall as I sat down opposite him.

“So you’re with the Metropolitan?” he asked.

I nodded. I didn’t see the sense in being specific about my current status with the paper.

“You got some ID?” he asked.

I fished out my laminated Metropolitan card and tossed it on Cherry’s desk. Fortunately, Magnuson had not thought to make me surrender it. If I were a cop, I’d have had to turn in my shield and my piece, but reporters didn’t carry around that much paraphernalia. Cherry glanced at it, tossed it back.

“Long way from home,” he said. “What brings you up here?”

“The Kickstart shootings,” I said.

“Whoa, that goes back,” he said, sitting up in his chair and leaning forward across his desk. “Man, that was something, certainly by this town’s standards. A triple gang shooting. Watcha looking into that for?”

“It’s kind of complicated,” I said. “But there might be a connection between those shootings and a recent murder in Oakwood. A columnist with that town’s paper got himself killed.”

“Interesting. We were never able to close that one. Had our suspicions, of course, but we never nailed anybody for it.”

“Who was your leading suspect?”