Caro and the bearded cop were chewing croissants and drinking coffee. They had feet up on a big table. A paper bag was torn open revealing a clutch of French pastries. I figured that was the local equivalent of the doughnut. White paper coffee cups were lined up next to a pile of black plastic burner phones. Caro was perusing a stack of eight by tens. The photographs looked tiny in his massive hands. As I came in he handed one to the beard. Caro saw me first and visibly flinched.

Flinched like he hadn’t been expecting me. Like he wouldn’t have flinched for anyone else. It was a little moment, but in my experience little moments give big insights. It was fast and instinctive, but I made a flash decision to be aggressive. It’s the training. Like Napoleon said, first I get involved, then I see.

I walked nice and easy towards them and smiled broadly. “At ease, gentlemen. No reason to stand for me.” The eight by tens went face-down. I snatched one up from the table. Carnage. The Rigalle family in a mixed-up pile on the living room rug. Like a butcher’s table after they’d got done taking care of a new delivery of slaughtered pigs. I said, “Reading the funny papers, I see.”

The beard eased his legs off the table, but didn’t get up. He said, “Those are police property.”

I flipped the photo back at Caro and picked up another one. The beard sighed and shook his head. The second eight by ten was a close-up shot of Rigalle’s severed head. The eyes were closed and the face was barely recognizable. Puffy and white after the blood had drained. The head rested upright on a coffee table. I slid the photo back.

The beard smiled. “If you have to puke, do it in the bathroom, or better yet, downstairs with the uniforms.”

Caro stood and glowered. His biceps were the diameter of medium watermelons, thighs like beer kegs. His voice was a hoarse, barely articulate growl. “What are you doing here?”

I stepped into his personal space and clapped him on the shoulder. I was in there before he could react. Sluggish reflexes. But it was like slapping a stone wall. “It’s only been two days and your voice has gotten worse. You should take a break from the juice, big guy.”

Caro croaked defensively, “It’s worse in the morning.” He stepped back and ran into his chair, almost knocking it over.

I said, “Easy now.” The big man scooped up the eight by tens, turned around and fled the squad room.

The beard looked up at me. “It isn’t safe to antagonize Caro.”

“I don’t do safe.”

The beard was languid. I wondered what his pupils looked like behind the sunglasses he still wore. “In that case what is it that you do?”

“You really want to know?”