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on protecting the scene.”
    “Good choice.” I turned back to Clarence. “Once I finish here, we’ll canvass for witnesses, take written statements.”
    “These guys collecting stuff in the bags—are they called CSIs? Or criminologists?”
    “Criminologists aren’t evidence collectors, they’re experts in why criminals commit crimes. What you know as CSIs are what we call criminalists. They’re crime scene techs, evidence collectors. They make sketches, usually a detailed drawing later. They’re more artistic than detectives.”
    He peered at my sketch on the yellow pad. “I hope so. Keisha drew better than that in first grade. Where do they take the bags?”
    “Evidence locker. They maintain a chain of custody. If we have a particular lab request, we ask. Otherwise, they check for fingerprints, DNA traces, et cetera. Then they search for a match.” I looked up at him. “Can I do my job now?”
    “Part of your job is helping me do mine.”
    “Yeah. The attachment.”
    Carlton Hatch loudly pronounced death. Everybody else stifled their smirks.
    “What’s the medical examiner’s role?” Clarence asked.
    “He’s the ranking official at the crime scene, even over the lead detective. Which is why I don’t like him showing up early. Generally, they estimate cause of death and time of death, then go over the results of the autopsy. Then revise as needed. They usually show up on the scene later. Not Carlton Hatch.”
    “Chandler!”
    Manny Domast exploded into the room. There are advantages to having a thirty-six-year-old partner who’s a former gangbanger. He’s street savvy, shrewd, bold. A pit bull.
    He’s also sixty-grit sandpaper.
    “What took you so long?” I asked.
    “We weren’t the up team, man. What happened?”
    “Not sure. Maybe a sick detective or two deaths in one night? Somehow we got bumped up to the top.”
    “That’s crazy, man. Maria’s pulling a shift at the hospital. I had to get the kids dressed and into the car. Who wants to take three kids under five in the middle of the night?”
    “Detective Domast,” said James Earl Jones, or someone borrowing his voice. “It’s been a long time.”
    Manny twirled to look straight into the knot in Clarence Abernathy’s tie.
    “It’s just gettin’ worse,” Manny said.
    “You read your e-mail, right?” I asked. “And the attachment?”
    “Where’d you find him this time of night?” Manny said. “Jazzy’s Barbecue?”
    “We’ve been investigating,” Clarence said, “while you were fighting chickens behind Taco Bell.”
    “Whoa, hold it,” I said. “Look, you guys don’t like each other, and I don’t like either of you. But we’ve got a job to do. Manny, meet Lynn Carpenter, Tribune photographer.”
    Carp extended her hand. Manny didn’t.
    “Photographer?”
    “I thought the same. Before I realized how the public good would be served with crime scene photos.”
    “But that’ll compromise—”
    “Supposedly that’s not going to happen.”
    “It’s all in the attachment,” Clarence said. Not sweetly.
    I asked a criminalist, “Those chairs clean? The table?” I looked at Clarence and Manny. “Sit down, both of you.”
    Neither budged.
    “Sit!”
    Clarence sat. Manny pulled up a chair on the opposite side.
    “Let’s get you up to speed, Manny.” We did.
    Manny and Clarence and I once drove to a baseball game in Seattle, with Obadiah, Clarence’s dad, the best man I’ve ever known. Obadiah’s presence had made them civil. It was a long time ago. Obadiah Abernathy’s magic was gone.
    Manny gave Clarence one last hundred-yard stare, from two feet away, then went to the bedroom to examine the broken window.
    “Manny’s got an attitude,” I said to Carp. “In time, he grows on you.” Like mildew .
    I stood beside the professor’s desk looking at two piles of papers, one with a red C on the top, the other unmarked.
    “Philosophy 102,” I read. “Ethics.”
    “May I touch them?” Clarence