It could have been the wheelchair. Psychologically, people associated the apparatus with the aged. But it was more than just the confines of the steel chair. Wenderhole’s bald crown was ringed with white, kinky curls. His deep-set eyes were dark and wary. His lips were pale; his mocha skin was blotched with white colorless patches. When Marge knocked on his open office door, he looked up, noticing her badge around her neck, and held up an index finger. He was talking to a tall teen who was clutching a basketball.

“I’ll just wait outside until you’re done.” Marge slipped into the hallway and leaned against a faded yellow wall festooned with children’s art. Somewhere there was an indoor gym reverberating with the sound of bouncing rubber, and mixed with the din was the pulsating thump of rap music. Marge had passed a TV room and a crafts room on the way in. Not a computer in sight.

The teen soon emerged, dribbling down the hallway. He turned left and disappeared. Marge showed her face in the door opening. Wenderhole was at his desk, writing some notes. Without looking up, he said, “Come in, Sergeant.”

His wheelchair took up most of the space and also served as his desk chair. No place for her to park her butt. She leaned against the wall. “Thanks for seeing me, Mr. Wenderhole.”

“Jervis.” He spun around and faced her. “Did you have a chance to look around?”

“Not much. Didn’t want to disturb anyone.”

“With all that racket going on I don’t think anyone would notice.” Wenderhole smiled. “What’d you think about what you saw?”

“I think that you’re doing very well with limited resources.”

The man nodded. “Very limited resources.”

“My daughter goes to Cal Tech. She belongs to a group that reconditions old computers and gives them away to worthy organizations. Most of the time, we’ve been the recipients. LAPD is pretty bare-bones. But I can pass the word to her if you want.”

“Thank you, Sergeant, but it won’t do us much good. Anything we can’t affix to the wall or floor winds up getting stolen. However, I wouldn’t mind a laptop.”

Marge smiled. “I’ll let her know.”

“Cal Tech…” Wenderhole shook his head. “She must be a genius.”

“She is, but not thanks to me. She’s adopted.”

“Is she Asian?”

Marge paused before answering. “You assumed she’s Asian because she goes to Cal Tech?”

Wenderhole smiled. “Racist, isn’t it. Well?”

“Chinese. She was orphaned while a teen and I got lucky.”