“Some mess, huh? Blood and crud.” He drained his cup, lifting it high to catch every last drop. “Behavioral Science is cut down to one guy who’s kept busy weeding weirdos out of the department. Next priority is counseling the weirdos who slip through. If I put in an application for this kind of thing I’ll get a request to fill out another application form. They don’t want to do it. On top of that, they don’t know anything about kids. You do.”

“I don’t know anything about homicide.”

“Forget homicide. That’s my problem. Talk to a seven-year-old.”

I hesitated. He held out his hands. The palms were white, well-scrubbed.

“Hey, I’m not expecting a total freebie. I’ll buy you lunch. There’s a fair-to-middling Italian place with surprisingly good gnocchi not far from the …”

“Not far from the abattoir?” I grimaced. “No thanks. Anyway, I can’t be bought for noodles.”

“So what can I offer you by way of a bribe—you’ve got everything—the house in the hills, the fancy car, the Ralph Lauren gear with jogging shoes to match. Christ, you’ve got retirement at thirty-three and a goddamn perpetual tan. Just talking about it is getting me pissed.”

“Yes, but am I happy?”

“I suspect so.”

“You’re right.” I thought of the grisly photos. “And I’m certainly not in need of a free pass to the Grand Guignol.”

“You know,” he said, “I’ll bet underneath all of that mellow is a bored young man.”

“Crap.”

“Crap nothing. How long has it been, six months?”

“Five and a half.”

“Five and a half, then. When I met you—correct that, soon after I met you, you were a vibrant guy, high energy, lots of opinions. Your mind was working. Now all I hear about is hot tubs, how fast you run your goddamned mile, the different kinds of sunset you can see from your deck—to use your jargon, it’s regression. Cutesy-poo short pants, roller-skating, water play. Like half the people in this city, you’re functioning on a six-year-old level.”

I laughed.

“And you’re making me this offer—to get involved in blood and crud—as a form of occupational therapy.”

“Alex, you can break your ass trying to achieve Nirvana Through Inertia, but it won’t work. It’s like that Woody Allen line—you mellow too much, you ripen and rot.”

I slapped my bare chest.

“No signs of decay yet.”

“It’s internal, comes from within, breaks through when you’re least expecting it.”

“Thank you, Doctor Sturgis.”

He gave me a disgusted look, went into the kitchen and returned with his mouth buried in a pear.

“S’good.”

“You’re welcome.”