The early hours were quiet, as always, but the men braced for a big weekend. The weather had been bad the previous two weekends, when the hooples, the troublemakers, had hoped to come out of their winter shells. This was going to be a hoople night; the men said it as they came in.

Leland, in charge, wanted the pending paperwork cleared up quickly. At nine o’clock there was a stickup of a delicatessen in Westlake. At nine-thirty a patrolman found a man exposing himself in Lewis Park. The man was without identification and refused to give his name. He was put in the squad room tank while a description was circulated and the cars around Lewis Park were marked. Cars that did not move in twenty-four hours would be checked for ownership. Leland was confident that the man would be identified this way, if his family did not submit a missing persons report first. At ten o’clock, near State Street, a man approached a lone woman, punched her in the face, called her Clara—not her name—and ran into the crowd. It seemed to be a case of mistaken identity and Leland thought that they had better forget it. In the meantime, a burglary was reported on Annadale Avenue, one of the better blocks on the fringe of Joytown. Two men went over to get a list of what had been taken. At ten-forty a suspect in the delicatessen stickup was brought in, newly drunk, and thrown in the tank with the sex offender. A plainclothes patrolman brought in a whore for soliciting on State Street. When the two men came back with the burglary list it was eleven-thirty and the police buff who assisted the desk sergeant down-stairs was sent out for sandwiches and coffee.

At one-thirty when the call came in there had been quiet for an hour. The whore was in the women’s jail and the stickup suspect had been identified. The sex offender watched them all interestedly, entertained and calmed. Six men were on duty, three in a whispered conversation by the windows, Schoenstein, Leland’s partner and second lowest in seniority, handling the calls, and Leland juggling the schedule for April, when Quillan, one of the senior men, was taking his vacation to get married again after three years of widowerhood. He was marrying his son’s mother-in-law, variously “to give my kid a break,” “to keep my feet warm,” and “to give myself a heart attack.” He had the good humor of a man who considered himself lucky.

Schoenstein took a call, listened, and reached for his pad. “Yes, Robbie. All right. Forty-seven Forster. Right. Thanks, Robbie.” He hung up. “Joe?” He looked at Leland as if stricken. “Murder. It’s a mess.”

Leland was getting up. “Put on your coat. That was Robbie Loughran?” Schoenstein, a handsome blond young man, nodded. Over his shoulder, to the men at the window, Leland said, “Reynolds, take over the phone. Curran, get the camera, the lights, plenty of film.” He looked to Schoenstein for more information.