Pribyl had a good reputation, however; and I’d encountered him, from time to time, back when I was working the pickpocket detail. He had soft, gentle features and dark alert eyes. Normally, he was an almost dapper dresser, but his tie seemed hastily knotted, his suit and hat looked as if he’d thrown them on-which he probably had; he was responding to a call at four in the morning, after all.

He was looking in at Stanley, who hadn’t been moved; we were waiting for a coroner’s physician to show. Several other plainclothes officers and half a dozen uniformed cops were milling around, footsteps crunching on the glass-strewn sidewalk.

“Just a kid,” Pribyl said, stepping away from the Ford. “Just a damn kid.” He shook his head. He nodded to me and I followed him over by a shattered display window.

He cocked his head. “How’d you happen to have such a young operative working with you?”

I explained about the car being Stanley’s.

He had an expression you only see on cops: sad and yet detached. His eyes tightened.

“How-and why-did stink bombs and window smashing escalate into bloody murder?”

“You expect me to answer that, Sergeant?”

“No. I expect you to tell me what happened. And, Heller-I don’t go into this with any preconceived notions about you. Some people on the force-even some good ones, like John Stege-hold it against you, the Lang and Miller business.”

They were two crooked cops I’d recently testified against.

“Not me,” he said firmly. “Apples don’t come rottener than those two bastards. I just want you to know what kind of footing we’re on.”

“I appreciate that.”