“It’s been all over the TV for crissake,” Calvin snapped.

“Jack doesn’t own a TV,” Laurie said. “His neighborhood won’t allow it.”

“Where do you live, son?” Sergeant Murphy asked. “I’ve never heard of neighbors not allowing each other to have a television.” The aging, red-faced, Irish policeman had a pronounced paternal streak. He’d been assigned to the medical examiner’s office for more years than he was willing to admit and thought of all the employees as family.

“He lives in Harlem,” Chet said. “Actually his neighbors would love him to get a set so they could permanently borrow it.”

“Enough, you guys,” Jack said. “Fill me in on the excitement.”

“A Mafia don was gunned down yesterday late afternoon,” Calvin’s booming voice announced. “It’s stirred up a hornet’s nest of trouble since he’d agreed to cooperate with the DA’s office and was under police protection.”

“He was no Mafia don,” Lou Soldano said. “He was nothing but a mid-level functionary of the Vaccarro crime family.”

“Whatever,” Calvin said with a wave of his hand. “The key point is that he was whacked while literally boxed in by a number of New York’s finest, which doesn’t say much about their ability to protect someone in their charge.”

“He was warned not to go to that restaurant,” Lou protested. “I know that for a fact. And it’s almost impossible to protect someone if the individual refuses to follow suggestions.”

“Any chance he could have been killed by the police?” Jack asked. One of the roles of a medical examiner was to think of all angles, especially when situations of custody were concerned.

“He wasn’t under arrest,” Lou said, guessing what was going through Jack’s mind. “He’d been arrested and indicted, but he was out on bail.”

“So what’s the big deal?” Jack asked.

“The big deal is that the mayor, the district attorney, and the police commissioner are all under a lot of heat,” Calvin said.