You have to remember, sergeant, that everyone we deal with is a convicted felon. Not some, not most-all.”

The supervisor was a plain woman with a no-nonsense attitude that somehow managed to convey warmth. Perhaps it was the Oliver Peoples glasses-tiny little lenses magnifying robin’s-egg eyes. The name on the little strip by her door said Ms Hammond, and Glitsky liked her right away. She had the back-corner office in the Ferry Building, with a view over the water to Treasure Island, up to the Bay Bridge, out to Alcatraz. People paid three grand a month for one-room apartments with that view. It might be one of the perks of the job-he knew she didn’t make that much.

Her office was clean and functional, brightened by the view and a small forest scattered in pots. Twenty-one parole officers reported to her.

“Well, what I meant was-”

“No. It’s all right. It’s just helpful to remember where these people are coming from. What they face outside.”

“Well, it’s possible our man-Louis Baker-was outside about an hour before he killed somebody.”

Ms Hammond sighed heavily, nodding. “Yes. That happens, too, I’m afraid.” She scooted her chair across the floor from her pitted green desk to a battered green file cabinet.

After a minute looking at something, she sighed again. “You want to see Al Nolan.”

“Is that bad news?”

She looked at her watch. “It’s two-thirty. If he took a normal lunch at noon, he might be back.”

Glitsky wondered if the entire bureaucracy was sinking, every department bogged down in bad faith and bullshit. But Ms Hammond faced him, shrugging. Shrugs and sighs. She probably didn’t know she did it. “Some of them need more supervising than others. Let me show you the way.”