I WORK out of the Hall of Justice. The Hall, as we referred to the gray, ten-story granite slab that housed the city's Department of Justice, was located just west of the freeway, on Sixth and Bryant. If the building itself, with its faded, antiseptic halls, didn't communicate that law enforcement lacked a sense of style, the surrounding neighborhood surely did. Hand-painted bail bondsman shacks, auto parts stores, parking lots, and dingy cafes. Whatever ailed you, you could find it at the Hall: Auto Theft, Sex Crimes, Robbery. The district attorney was on eight, with cubicles filled with bright young prosecutors. A floor of holding cells on ten. One-stop shopping, arrest to arraignment. Next door, we even had the morgue. After a hasty, bare-bones news conference, Jacobi and I agreed to meet upstairs and go over what we had so far. The twelve of us who covered homicide for the entire city shared a twenty-by-thirty squad room lit by harsh fluorescent lights. My desk was choice- by the window, "cheerily" overlooking the entrance ramp to the freeway. It was always covered with folders, stacks of photos, department releases. The one really personal item on it was a Plexiglas cube my first partner had given me. It was inscribed with the words You can't tell which way the train went by looking at the tracks.