The detectives at the 2-7 knew better than to piss Lieutenant Van Buren off. But "knowing better" and "deciding otherwise" were two different things, and each and every one of them had been called in for a dressing down. Or three.
Each time the Lieutenant closed the door, hands folded, head shaking incredulously, they paused to see who was in judgment and assess the damage.
If the detective in question started to slump in their spot, it was bad.
If the Lieutenant started to raise her voice, it was worse.
And if she shut the blinds to her office, blocking the gawkers and rubberneckers from the action, everyone said a prayer, thankful it wasn't them.