Corey walked into the adjacent room. It was a small office with a single desk. An electric fan was whirring but it needed oiling. It didn’t stir up much of a breeze and the man at the desk was perspiring. He was chunky, in his middle fifties. There was some white in his straw-colored hair and his face was seamed with deep lines. A few of the lines were scars. The right side of his face was a trifle out of line, and running down from the right eye almost to the lip there was a wide jagged scar. It wasn’t a knife scar, Corey decided. It looked more on the cudgel side, as though some very heavy, blunt weapon had smashed into the man’s face and split it wide open.

The man was wearing a short sleeve sport shirt and in places it was dark with sweat stains. He was rubbing his forearm across his sweat-dripping brow. “Close the door,” he said to Corey. “Bring a chair over.”

Corey closed the door, brought a chair near the desk and sat down. He saw that the man had mild gray eyes, and aside from the scars there was nothing hard about his face. He’d seen the man before, but he’d never been this close to him. It was surprising to see the mildness in the eyes, the softness in the lines of the mouth. The man had a reputation for brutality; it was said he was utterly merciless. He was Detective-Sergeant Henry McDermott, and he was head of the Night Squad.

Corey sat and waited. The only sound in the room was the slow whirring of the faulty electric fan.

McDermott sat slumped in his chair, looking off to the side as though Corey wasn’t there. From the screenless window a fly came looping in, made tentative passes at the inkwell on the desk pad, then settled down on the desktop and rubbed its feelers contentedly. McDermott gazed at the fly; it stayed on the desktop. It seemed to be saying, don’t mess with me and I won’t mess with you. But the fly’s presence was a challenge for the detective-sergeant and his eyes narrowed with strategy, his hand moving very slowly, closing in on the insect. Like any other fly, its policy was passive resistance. It didn’t move. McDermott’s cupped hand came down on it, scooped it up but didn’t crush it, just held it in the space between bent fingers and palm. Then McDermott raised his closed hand, peeked through a gap between his fingers and said aloud to the fly, “That’s the lesson for today. Class dismissed.”