“You sound bitter.”

“No, I’m not.”

“Then you sound like an old man. In fact you dress like an old man.” The girl from the News kept punching at him.

Dressing this afternoon, knowing he was going to be interviewed, Raymond had put on the navy-blue summer-weight suit, a white short-sleeved shirt and a dark-blue polka-dot tie. He had bought the suit five months ago, following his appointment to lieutenant. He had grown the mustache, he would have to admit, to look older, letting it grow and liking it more and more as it filled in dark and took a bandit turn down around the corners of his mouth. He felt the mustache made him look serious, maybe a little mean. He was five-ten and a half and weighed one-sixty-four, down fifteen pounds in the past few months. It showed in his face, gave him a gaunt, stringy look and made him appear taller.

The girl from the News brought it back to impressions, images, the possible influence of certain screen detective types, and Raymond said he thought movie detectives looked like cowboys. A mistake. The girl from the News jumped on that, said it was revealing and wrote something in her notebook. Raymond said he didn’t mean real working cowboys, he meant, you know, the jeans, the denim outfits some of them wore. He said Detroit Police detectives had to wear coats and ties on duty. The girl from the News said she thought that was a drag.

They didn’t seem to be getting anywhere. Raymond said, “Well, if that’s it…”

“You still haven’t answered the question,” the girl from the News said, giving him a weary but patient look.

“Would you mind repeating it?”

“The question is, why can’t a cop leave his macho role at headquarters and show a little sensitivity at home? Why can’t you separate self from your professional role and admit some of your vulnerability, your fears, and not just talk about your triumphs?”