New voices rumbled from the lobby, and I looked out as two men came through the revolving doors. One was young and short and wore a topcoat and a racing cap. The other was old and tall and wore a parka and a pair of ancient rubber galoshes. All the other men seemed to snap to attention at their arrival. These two must be the detectives. They were the ones I had to convince. My jury of two.

They stopped and spoke to the uniformed officers, and all of them turned and looked at me. The younger man was Latino, I thought, while the older one had the florid complexion of an Irishman. Or a drunk. Or both.

They ducked behind the crime scene screen into Car 3. They were in there a long time. When they came out, they talked to the security guard at the desk. The young one took notes; the old one stood and listened with his hands in his pockets.

They moved on to the janitorial workers sitting cross-legged on the lobby floor. The first one rose to his feet as the detectives approached. The younger detective did all the talking, much of it in Spanish, and he took all the notes. They moved on to the next worker and the next, with the younger one taking the lead each time. When they’d finished with all three, they said something to the officer standing guard outside my little room, and he came in and pulled the coats off the rack. He didn’t speak to me or look at me but went back and passed out the coats to the janitorial workers. They shrugged them on, unplugged their machines, and wheeled them out to a van waiting at the curb.

Another van was unloading its crew outside. Men and women, two of each. Black and white, also two of each. They pushed through the revolving doors hauling big aluminum cases of gear after them. They suited up in Tyvek coveralls and booties and, after a brief conference with the detectives, disappeared behind the screen. They were the medical examiner’s team, I guessed, or the crime scene investigators. The detectives stood and talked to each other for a few moments, then they went into another huddle with the uniformed officer standing guard over me, then at last they came in to see me.

They introduced themselves. The old, tall one was Detective Riley; the young, short one was Detective Cruz. I leaned in to their shields as they held them up for inspection. The letters swam in my eyes and I had to blink before I could make out their names. Riley was Joseph; Cruz was Carl. CRIMINAL INVESTIGATIONS DIVISION was emblazoned on both shields. CID.

“Ms. Lambert, is it?” This was the younger detective, Cruz. He was in his thirties, I guessed, and he had a neatly trimmed goatee and big liquid eyes like a waif in a Margaret Keane painting.

“Yes.”

“Do you need any medical attention? We can get an EMT in here, or take you to the hospital. Whatever you need.”