He stepped aside and as Milo entered the room, nodded approvingly. “In terms of an introduction, I’m Detective Broussard and this is Detective Poulsenn.”

“Internal Affairs,” said Poulsenn.

Broussard smiled. “In terms of why we want you here, it would be better if you sat down.”

Milo settled on the folding chair.

Poulsenn remained in the far corner of the interrogation room, but cramped quarters placed him close enough for Milo to count the pores in his nose. If he’d had any. Like Broussard, his complexion glowed like a poster for clean living. Broussard positioned himself to Milo’s right, angled so Milo had to crane to see his lips move.

“How do you like Central Division, Detective?”

“I like it fine.” Milo chose not to strain to meet Broussard’s eyes, kept his attention on Poulsenn but stayed inert and silent.

“Enjoying homicide work?” said Broussard.

“Yes, sir.”

“What about homicide work do you like, specifically?”

“Solving problems,” said Milo. “Righting wrongs.”

“Righting wrongs,” said Broussard, as if impressed by the originality of the response. “So homicide can be righted.”

“Not in the strict sense.” This was starting to feel like one of those stupid grad school seminars. Professor Milrad taking out his frustration on hapless students.

Poulsenn checked his fingernails. Broussard said, “Are you saying you enjoy trying to achieve justice?”

“Exactly—”

“Justice,” said Poulsenn, “is the point of all police work.”

“Yes, it is,” said Broussard. “Sometimes, though, justice gets lost in the shuffle.”

Slipping a question mark into the last few words. Milo didn’t bite, and Broussard went on: “A shame when that happens, isn’t it, Detective Sturgis?”

Poulsenn inched closer. Both IA men stared down at Milo.

He said, “I’m not getting the point of—”

“You were in Vietnam,” said Broussard.

“Yes—”

“You were a medic, saw lots of action.”

“Yes.”

“And before that you earned a master’s degree.”

“Yes.”

“Indiana University. American literature.”

“Correct. Is there some—”

“Your partner, Detective Schwinn, never went to college,” said Broussard. “In fact, he never finished high school, got grandfathered in back when that was acceptable. Did you know that?”

“No—”

“Nor did Detective Schwinn serve in any branch of the military. Too young for Korea, too old for ’Nam. Have you found that a problem?”

“A problem?”

“In terms of commonality. Developing rapport with Detective Schwinn.”

“No, I . . .” Milo shut his mouth.

“You . . . ?” said Broussard.

“Nothing.”

“You were about to say something, Detective.”

“Not really.”

“Oh, yes you were,” said Broussard, suddenly cheerful. Milo craned, involuntarily. Saw his purplish, bowed lips hooked up at the corners. But Broussard’s mouth locked shut, no teeth. “You were definitely going to say something, Detective.”

“I . . .”