Chapter 3

Another week on the job, but things were looking better. Pembleton had passed his firearms exam, and had vowed to go back out 'first death tomorrow'. Paradoxically, there hadn't been a murder in two days. Frank had been staring at the phone so hard, as if somehow his sheer will would manage to make it ring.

Worden was beginning to be even more puzzled by the whole way Homicide was working. He'd been here two weeks, and there'd been a total of four murders, three of them on the same night. "I know I'm going to regret asking this, but is it always this slow around here?" he asked Howard.

"Depends on the time of year," Kay admitted. "We drowned in dead bodies in January and February, we got a light summer. Don't ask me why, but for some reason Baltimoreans don't kill each other as much in June or July."

That didn't make a hell of a lot of sense to Craig, as he had dealt with a lot of brawls and fights as a patrolman in the summer. "So, is it weird that the citizens of this town have gone quiet in December?"

"Maybe its the fact Christmas is just around the corner," Munch piped up. "Maybe all the corner boys and slingers want a nice G-pack in their stocking and have decided to stop killing each other until the new year."

"Lot of them are still young enough to believe in Santa Claus," Kay said sadly.

Lewis and Kellerman walked back into the squadroom from breakfast. "Let me guess. While we were out, that phone ain't jangled once." Meldrick said rhetorically.

"Considering all the red that's under your name, I'm a little surprised you'd want to get another fresh corpse," Munch pointed out.

Almost as if that was a cue, the phone began its distinct ring. Craig had been waiting for the last couple of weeks to take a call on his own. He jumped at it. "Homicide, Worden," He grabbed a pen and paper and took down all the vital information. "Be right there." He hung up. "Where the hell is Pembleton?"

"You took the call." Howard told them.

"For three days, the man has been bitching and moaning to everyone in the squadroom that he wants to go back on the street." Worden reminded them. "The last thing I want to do is piss off Frank Pembleton."

"Gee was very clear that Frank was only allowed to go out as secondary," Howard countered. "Now, I'll grant you he'll be irked that he missed his first chance out, but he knows better than you how the game is played."

"All right. It's on the record. He missed his chance." Craig looked around the squad. "Munch, you want to ride?"

One of the detective's eyebrows went all the way to his hairline. "You. Want to partner with me."

"Never mind. Lewis!"

"Whoa, whoa. I'd just like to know where the hell I'm going. Want to layer properly."

Worden looked down at his notes. "Corner of Charles and North. Car with a dead body and a lot on the blood on the windows."

"They're sure its not a suicide?" Munch asked.

"I tend to have faith in my fellow patrolman. You coming or not?"

Munch considered this for a moment. "I'll get my coat."

Worden knew he was taking his life in his hands by going to a crime scene with John Munch. Munch had never been one of the detectives that Gaffney had told him to keep an eye on, but Craig had learned more than enough about the man just from his conversation and at the Waterfront that the detective was the definite of a loose cannon. He'd been through two partners in the last three years, he was very proud of his reputation in the counterculture, and even on his best days he was known for being a sloppy cop. He had his benefits - whatever else you might say about his rambles, you couldn't deny he was entertaining - but he figured there was a reason people kept leaving him.

"I'm a little surprised you decided to ride with me," Munch was telling him.

"You don't have a partner, I don't have a partner," Craig reminded him. "Considering you've been riding solo for six months, I figured you'd be grateful someone didn't believe in your jinx."

"Jinx?" Craig didn't have to turn his attention away from the window to know the eyebrow had gone up again.

"Your first partner takes a bullet in the brain, makes an ass of himself at a convention, and retires. Your next partner lasts six months and then runs off to Paris. Now if I were the kind of person who believed in these things, I'd say the universe was telling you that your partners will do anything to get away from you."

Munch was quiet for a minute - practically a vow of silence. "I have been contemplating that over the last few weeks," he finally said.

Worden couldn't help himself. "You're not pissed at me?"

"You'd have to mention my divorces to irk me, and frankly, I'm better off without them." Now he paused again. "Aren't you afraid you mind end up signing up for the International Space Station to get away from me?"

"Let's just see how this murder goes." Now Craig paused. "And I haven't decided to make this permanent yet, so don't get your hopes up."

Charles and North was what passed for East Baltimore's shopping district. There were a lot of relatively pricey stores around here, so the crime level had been pretty high to begin with. It was, however, rare to get an actual murder.

"Officer Rogers," Worden said as he flipped his shield over his right pocket. "Where is the lucky contestant?"

"The victim is a Frederic Robinson, African-American, 24. Found shot dead in his car. "

"Who found the body?" Munch asked.

"Amelia Kurtis. She was going to get her daily coffee and the Sun, walked by the corner store, saw the man just sitting there."

By now, it was clear where they were going. A fairly non-descript brown Ford Sedan was being surveyed by the usual throng of cops and medical examiners. Surprisingly, given the area, there weren't nearly as many looky-loos as you'd expect.

"Dr. Cox," Worden told him. "What brings us out here this fine winter's morning?"

The car door was open. Robinson seemed to match his description. 'Shot dead' was putting it mildly. There was blood all over the upholstery, the dashboard and the steering wheel. The only thing that Craig could tell for sure from first glance was that he had not been taken by surprise.

"Three shots. One in the leg, one in the shoulder, one in the back. I'll have to get him on the table be sure, but I'm guessing that at least one of the bullets in still in him."

By now, Craig had the latex on. It looked like a spent shell casing had rolled under the car. He picked it up, and took out a Ziploc. "Looks like a .22" he said. "What's your best guess as to time of death?"

"Rigor's barely set in. Three, four hours max."

Worden looked around. "A guy gets shot, and no one calls the cops for four hours? Even for this town, that's cold."

"Hey, we're lucky that someone noticed at all." Munch told him. "Besides, I'm guessing that no one was particularly going to be looking for this citizen."

He pointed under the dashboard. "If I'm not mistaken, that would be a .38 special. Mr. Robinson didn't come to this neighborhood to buy a new big screen. Or if he did, he probably wasn't planning on paying for it."

"All right. This is probably going to be an exercise in futility, but we might as well start the canvas." Craig told him.

Another patrolman ran up to him. "Detectives, half a block up the street. We found a blood trail."

Worden didn't even get enough time to think that this might actually be good luck. He and Munch took out their weapons, and followed the patrolmen. The blood trail went another block, getting thicker with every few steps. It finally ended in an alley.

There was another body in it. African-American, roughly the same age and build as Robinson, and just as dead. "Tell the crime scene people to get up here."

One of the medics rolled the body to find that this deceased had even more common with the late Fred Robinson - a bullet in his thigh and one in his stomach. He was also holding a bloody crowbar. "I'm guessing we've met Mr. Robinson's brother in crime."

"You're more right than you know," Worden told him, as he reached into the victims coat pocket. "Lamar Robinson, 22."

"Looks like someone was pruning the family tree." Munch said dryly.

Dr. Cox was not thrilled to find that she now had another body to examine, nor particularly wild that Craig had, however minutely, disturbed her crime scene. She gave him enough latitude to confirm the obvious, Lamar had taken two bullets like his brother, but he'd had enough go power to keep moving until he'd ended up in the alley. She promised to retrieve bullets and send them to ballistics.

"I'm beginning to have serious doubts about the security of this neighborhood," Worden told Munch. "No one noticed Fred getting capped three times, fine. But Lamar runs all the way past this lines of stores, lies in that alley for four, five hours, and nobody says shit?"

"I will admit, even given the general attitude of see no evil, hear no evil in this town, there does seem to be a suspicious cloud of ignorance." Munch reluctantly told him. "Granted this happened when most of these stores were closed for the night, still you'd have expected someone to have at least noticed a dead body."

"Nothing from the canvas?" Craig asked.

"Apart from Miss Kurtis, who somehow didn't noticed Lamar over there, the only person who even admits to hearing something is the night manager of the 7-11 outside." Munch checked his notepad. "He says around one a.m. he heard what sounded like gunshots coming from somewhere outside He said he called 911, but since he couldn't tell anyone where the shots had come from, the operator told him they'd get to it when they had a chance."

"And no one does shit until our Good Samaritan comes out for breakfast," Craig sighed. "I knew the bureaucracy for this town was fucked up, but this borders on ridiculous."

"You just haven't been on the job long enough." Munch said cheerfully. "I have a feeling that Kay and Gee aren't going to be nearly as considerate when they learn what had happened."

When they got back to the squadroom, Worden went straight to check and see if the Robinson brothers had anybody resembling next of kin. He wasn't expecting to. He did, however, find the other part of it.

"Frederic Robinson. 1991, arrested for heroin possession. 1993, armed robbery. Served a year in Jessup. Lamar Robinson, 1992, weapons charge, 1994, assault charge, drug possession. Pled out, got probation. All this on top of their juvie records, which I'm guessing tell us they made the honor roll at Spofford." Craig told them.

"Their mother must be so proud." Lewis said.

"Their mother died when they were eleven and nine, respectively. Chasing the dragon. Guessing that's one of the better habits she passed down to her boys."

"Along with brown eyes and black hair." Munch said reluctantly. "Well, now we know what Fred and Lamar were doing in that particular neighborhood. Looking for a score to pay for the monkey on their backs."

"What about the store owners? Any idea who they might have hit?" Howard was asking.

Worden checked his watch. "Most of them should be open by now. The 7-11 guy reported hearing gunfire, and he didn't have a weapon. Neither did the guy at the corner store."

"I have a feeling the Robinsons were chasing bigger game than that." Munch remarked. "There were at least four or five stores there that were high end. Jeweler, pawnshop, clothing store. You want to make the kind of score that holds you over for a month or so, those would be the kinds of places."

"And you think our boys were smart enough to think that far ahead?" Craig asked.

"Frederic was busted for armed robbery. You gotta figure that's a crash course in what not to do." Munch reminded him. "Besides, I got a preliminary report from ballistics. His .38, there were three rounds fired."

There'd been a firefight on this block, and only one person had thought the call the cops. This was getting fucking ridiculous.

"The lieutenant's getting heat from upstairs already on this one." Howard told them.

"Over two junkies getting killed over an armed robbery in East Baltimore?" Munch couldn't help but ask.

"It's part of the commercial district of Baltimore. City officials are already getting irked that something like this could happen in the business part of town."

Worden hadn't been a murder police that long, but he knew enough that this was code for 'not black'. No one, short-term or long term was going to miss two junkies, but junkies who shot up the business section? That had to be handled. "They didn't seem to do anything when the shooting started," he reminded Howard.

"It's Baltimore. It's practically background music."

The first person they ended up interviewing was the owner of a dry cleaner named Sygman Rhee. His store officially closed at nine p.m., and he was generally at home by eleven, so at least he had a legitimate reason for not having heard the cacophony of gunfire last night. Rhee, however, didn't seem particularly happy to verify his whereabouts or be interviewed in the first place.

"Did you ever see either of these two men?" Munch asked.

The photographs were among the only ones they could find that weren't among the Robinsons mug shots. Nevertheless, Rhee viewed them with even more scorn. "Yes. They come in here every week to have their suits pressed."

"Have you seen them before or not?" Worden said just as harshly.

"Of course not, detective. Any man like that who came into my store would only be here to cause trouble." Rhee shook his head. "I live in this town for ten years, I know their type from a mile away."

"And exactly what type is that, Mr. Rhee?" Munch asked.

"You should know. It's your job to stop people like them from bothering people like me. Not that you do a good job at it."

It was becoming very difficult for Craig to keep a civil tongue in his head. "We're here to protect and serve, Mr. Rhee."

"Really? Last year, Miss Caine down the block, got shot during an armed robbery. She bled out before the police even bothered to show up. They never found who did it. From then on, I make sure I'm protected." He pulled back his coat, to reveal a revolver stuck beneath his belt.

"Yes, I have gun. I also have second amendment right to bear arms."

The next man on their list was an Oscar Juarez. He owned the pawnshop on the block, and he had fervently denied that he knew anything about the murders that had taken place last night.

"You really think that it's the wisest idea to be carrying one?" Worden asked.

"Five robberies in the four years I own this store. Six people murdered. In this neighborhood, one would have to be fool not to carry one."

Munch was beginning to look pissed. Worden thought that odd - he figured, considering how libertarian the former radical had been, especially given that he was a cop, he'd have been more inclined to have sympathy for Juarez. "Did you happen to hear the shooting last night, Mr. Juarez?"

"The store closes at midnight. I didn't hear anything before than, and I was at home with my wife."

Another loving spouse to provide an alibi. Seemed like all the suspects were married these days.

"The gun and the permit, sir." Munch demanded.

Juarez scowled even more than Rhee had, but he reached beneath his desk, produced a lockbox, and removed a .22. He took another moment and removed a permit. "I will want both of them back."

"Don't worry, sir, I have a feeling we'll be coming back," Munch told him.

"I never had any use for Lyndon Johnson. Guy was an overbearing, bully, who was willing to let tens of thousands of Americans die in a war he knew fucking well we couldn't win just so he could stay being President."

Munch had been surprisingly quiet on the drive back from the canvas. This rant, even for him seemed off kilter. "Is this your opportunity for you to ask me my opinion of who killed JFK?" Worden ventured.

"I'm always welcome to hear someone else's opinion, but that's not what I was going to." Munch focused on the road. "When Bobby and Martin Luther King were shot within two months, even that Texas asshole thought that something needed to be done. He tried to get major control legislation through Congress throughout July and August. That guy was supposed to be some legislative wizard, but even with huge Democratic majorities, he couldn't get it done. 1968, blood is running in the streets, and those pussies in Congress couldn't get their heads out of their asses."

Even after less than a month in the squad, Craig was more than used to Munch's rants. He'd rarely, however, seen him this worked up. "So what you're saying is gun control will never happen?"

"I'm saying the idea is a joke. Thirty years later, Clinton manages to get some bans of assault weapons to a four year old, and they all hail him as a hero. Meanwhile, in the city where he lives, a city so violent it makes Baltimore look like Shangri-La, the Homicide department is drowning in red ink and bodies." Munch shook his head. "Gun makers are part of the military industrial complex, bigger business than alcohol and tobacco, and as long as the industry turns a profit, people like the Robinson brothers are just going to be collateral damage."

"I hate to break your vision of the world, but you saw Frederic and Lamar's rap sheets. They weren't exactly saints." Worden reminded him.

"So that makes it okay for someone on this block to shoot them, and for the rest of their fellow owners to play dumb?" Munch told him. "Cause you and I both know that's what happened here. These kinds of things happen all the time, and people like us are here to clean up the mess."

"I'm beginning to think you've been working this job too long."

"Maybe I have," Munch sighed. "It's just that this job never changes. It's like mowing the lawn. One week, you have to mow the lawn, the next week you have to do it again. And it never stops."

"You want to contemplate a career change? Fine," Worden told him. "However, I happen to be the primary on this case. And I don't want my first two murders to stay in red. So can we save the goddamn politics on and other bullshit until we finish checking the guns at ballistics?'

Munch was silent for a few moments. "You know, I think I liked you better when you were getting coffee orders."

No wonder this guy keeps going through partners.

The ballistics hunt was more of an ordeal than Worden had thought it would be. Five of the store owners on the block had owned guns, but only three were .22s. The only one that was even close to a match was Juarez, but when Kirsten took a closer look at the weapon, she said that the gun had been an aught-four and the bullets that had killed the Robinsons was an aught-six. It seemed like they were back to square one.

"Did you check the registrations of the store owners?" Worden asked Kirsten.

"Way ahead of you, Detective." Kirsten handed them a piece of paper. "Three other owners on the block have licenses for more than one weapon. And one of them is Oscar Juarez."

"He lied to us. Fancy that." Munch said.

"I think its time that we brought Mr. Juarez in for a good citizenship test of our own."

Worden had made it clear to Munch that he wanted to head the interrogation. Munch had been surprisingly willing, but then again, he had a reputation for being surprisingly strong as an interrogator, when he got pissed off. And Craig had already seen that it didn't take much to get the guy pissed off.

"I give you gun. What exactly is your problem?" Juarez said before he was even seated.

"Yes, you give us gun. You neglected to tell us it wasn't your only piece." Worden reminded him. "And having been to your place of business, I couldn't help but notice the smell of fresh paint."

Juarez became a little more aggressive. "I've owned the store for four years. I'm not entitled to make improvements."

"It seemed to me that paint was very fresh. Like maybe, last night." Worden asked. "There's a bunch of gunshots in your neighborhood, and you think that its time for home improvement?"

For the first time since they started talking to him, Juarez looked a little uneasy. "Maybe I should get lawyer."

"What for?" Munch spoke for the first time. "This isn't Honduras. We're not allowed to lock you up without charging you first. And we're not going to charge you unless you've done something wrong. Right now, this is just a friendly talk. You get a lawyer in here, and by definition, its going to get a lot less friendly."

"A business owner has every right to defend his property." Worden went on. "Now those homeboys last night, they didn't come to your neighborhood because they were looking to buy a new set of tennis rackets for their club. If it was their intention last night to rob you, then there were extenuating circumstances. You might even be able to walk out of here a free man. All you have to do is tell us the truth."

Juarez considered this for a couple of moments. "Last night, around ten o'clock, they come into my store."

"Those would be the Robinsons."

Juarez made a face. "They didn't introduce themselves. Both of them take out guns, tell me open the safe, take out all the money. I hold up my hands, I go for the gun. One of them fires two shots, I fire three."

"Did you hit any of them?" Munch asked.

"I don't know. But I couldn't have aimed too well. One of them fires again. I fire three more rounds. One of them hits home. They run out into the street. I go after them."

"Whoa," Worden paused. "Why'd you go after them?"

Juarez paused. "I wasn't thinking. I was on adrenaline. All I could think of us was stopping them before they come back and finish me off. Anyway, I go into street. One of them pulls his gun. I fire another shot. He goes down."

"Okay. But why didn't you call the cops afterwards?" Munch asked. "Why's your first impulse to call your local hardware store?"

"I was afraid. Latin man shoots two black men, I figured I end up spending the rest of my life in prison." He looked around. "It still looks like that might happened."

"I grant you, his story isn't exactly the most plausible, but given everything that's happened in this town before, I can understand why he would exactly be forthcoming," Munch told Giardello half an hour later.

"What do you think, Detective?" the lieutenant asked Worden.

"I think his story holds less water than the Chesapeake," Worden told him. "He went to a lot of trouble just to cover up everything instead of just going to the cops to the first place. And then, when we came to see him earlier, not only does he lie to us, he gives us the wrong gun, and leads us down the wrong path."

"All of which is Standard Operating Procedure for just about anybody who talks to a cop," Munch seemed surprisingly less bothered by this than he had been earlier. "Anyway, I don't know why you're pressing this so hard. Oscar Juarez just handed you two closed cases."

Indeed, technically none of this was their problem anymore. Once Juarez had confessed to the murder, the case was officially the problem of the states attorney.

"Danvers is reluctant to let this case plead out." Giardello told them. "Given the possible racial component, along with where the neighborhood was, he wants more information to decide what exactly he's going to charge Juarez with."

"What exactly do you want us to do?' Worden asked.

"The technicians have been working over Juarez's store. Go over the crime scene again. Maybe the I's will dot themselves."

"Life is just so unfair," Munch said a few hours later. "A beer tap needs replacing at the Waterfront, it takes three weeks just to get a contractor to visit. This place was shot up yesterday, and somehow Juarez manages to get an entire remodeling job."

Indeed, looking at the retail shop, it was stunning to see what the CSUs had uncovered in just a few hours. The place had gone from respectable business to a shooting gallery. "Somehow, Munch, I don't think the people Juarez hired are exactly the kind that would have the best reputation for your bar."

"That would require it to have a reputation to begin with," Munch said soulfully. "All right, how should we do this."

"I'm the primary, I have to walk it through. " Craig walked over to the counter. "All right, I see two bullet holes in the wall from one of the Robinsons."

Munch looked over to see them pointed out. "Three slugs over here, from Juarez."

"He gets over to the counter, he doesn't think to call the cops?"

"You ever been shot at, Detective?" The usual snark from Munch was gone, and was replaced by what seemed to be genuine hostility. "Ever take fire while you were at QRT?"

Sheepishly, Worden remembered the shooting that taken place early last year, when Munch and his former partner had been trying to serve an arrest warrant on a pedophile named Glenn Holton. "Couple of times."

"Then you know that some times adrenaline doesn't make you think straight. Besides, Jesse fucking Owens couldn't outrun a bullet."

Worden decided that maybe Munch had a point. "All right. So he walks over behind the counter. There's still a cage separating him from the Robinsons. Another life choice."

Munch considered this. "Based on what we know, I don't think the Robinsons are the type to think that logically. And it doesn't look like it gave the guy much cover."

A fair point. One of the slugs could've gone over Juarez's head. But there was still some kind of flaw in this.

Craig walked behind the counter, trying to think, and then he saw what he was looking for. "All right, let's say for the sake of argument, he decided to buzz them in. We found Frederick in his car, and Lamar in the alley. What did he decide to do? Buzz them out?"

For once, Munch did not have a ready comeback. "He never let them into the store."

"Looks like the Robinsons would have had more of a call for self-defense than Oscar did."

"So I shot first. What difference does it make?"

Oscar Juarez had not been more willing to give any information even after Worden and Munch had confronted him with the holes in his story.

"The difference is, that you fucked up, Oscar." Worden told him. "Had you just called the cop even after you'd filled the Robinson brothers full of holes, we'd have been willing to listen."

"I own a bar, and you saw that I carry a piece," Munch countered. "Couple of homeys came into my joint guns blazing, I might think the same way you did. Hell, I'm a cop. I've got the presumption of that along with owning a business."

"You shot them up. Fine. But then you go to all these lengths to cover your crime. You have a rush paintjob done to your place. You lie to us when we come in asking you about the shooting. "

"Then you give us the wrong gun. You know how much extra paperwork we had to fill out just to prove it was the wrong fucking weapon?" Munch was actually starting to sound angrier about this then the actual murders.

"We come back to your place, you give us another song and dance." Worden told him. "You see why we might be inclined to think you're bullshitting us again?"

"In the long term, world's not going to be a poorer place if the Robinsons are dead," Munch was starting to lay it on a little thick for Craig's taste. "It's like the Nixon lawyers said: it's the coverup that nails you, not the crime."

"You're on the hook for two murders right now," Worden said, moving in closer. "You want to get out from under this. Your best bet: tell us the truth."

Juarez looked at him for a couple of moments. In that period of time, it seems like he was about to give them everything. Then something in his expression changed - subtle but definitely there. "Get me a lawyer."

Fuck. They'd had the guy in the box for three hours more, and they were running out of time to charge him. Craig knew he'd been close, but now it was up to the lawyers.

"Can't you people ever make my life easy?"

Ed Danvers was a decent enough civil servant - he always looked even more tired than the cops did after a twenty-four hour shift, his suits always looked like they'd gone through bad dry cleaning, and he always seemed perpetually depressed. Considering he was supposed to be getting married in a month, you'd think that at least would give him a reason to smile occasionally, but Craig had yet to see him do it.

"You're telling us there isn't enough to charge this guy with murder?" Giardello demanded. "Oscar Juarez shot two men in cold blood."

"Yes, and defense exhibit 1 is going to be their criminal records. Exhibit 2 is going to be the guns you found. Then he'll show the pictures of the crime scene, you just deconstructed. By the time a slicker like Russom gets down, they'll be given Juarez a parade down Fayette."

"Maybe you should consider going into business with your fiancée," Worden couldn't help but say.

"It would certainly pay better than what make for the city," Danvers retaliated.

"You have the gun, he lied to the police over and over, he confessed to the murders," Munch reminded him.

"I'm not saying I'm not taking this to the grand jury," Danvers told them slowly. "Given the nature of the crime, the DA's office can't exactly ignore this one. I'm just telling you, it's going to be an uphill slog."

"Russom isn't interesting taking a plea?" Howard asked.

"Illegal weapons charge on Frederic Robinson, man two and probation for Lamar." Danvers said in his undertaker's tone.

"Why don't we just buy him a drink at the Waterfront and call it a day?" Munch was starting to sound more pissed than he'd been in the box. "Juarez has seen juries acquit defendants in similar situations in Miami and New York," Danvers reminded him. "He thinks he can walk away clean. Russom didn't even have to push him that hard to go to the grand jury."

Worden was starting to get more and more pissed himself. "There must be something that can be done."

Danvers looked at him strangely. "Wait a couple of more months. You'll get used to how slowly justice moves." He turned to Giardello. "We've got enough to hold him. None of the judges I know will grant bail for something this heinous. But like I said, you'd better bring me more, or there's a good chance Juarez will be back at his store, waiting for two more robbers."

Danvers walked off. Worden looked at Giardello. "Honestly, I thought closing my first murders would be more... satisfying."

Giardello seemed a little perplexed himself. "This is what Homicide is. You work a case as hard as you can. Sometimes you close it. Sometimes you don't. The thing is, whether you like it or not, there's always another one round the corner. All you can do is punch the clock, and wait."

There was truth to this. All the other detectives seemed to operate under this assumption - certainly Munch already had. He had walked back to his desk, and was already looking at a book.

"But that idealism. Stomp on it, hard. Otherwise, you'll burn out fast."

For the first time, Worden felt a pang of guilt. He'd been so consumed with the Robinson murders, he'd forgotten what Gaffney had wanted from him. Gee, at least for the moment, considered him one of his cops.

He watched as Julie began putting the Robinsons name on the board in black. Technically, that meant that it was time to move on.

"You can your change your desk now." Munch again.

"You're saying you don't mind me sitting at Russert's desk?"

"Not if you don't. You said that I was cursed. Maybe it's the furniture."

"That mean you wouldn't mind working a murder with me again?" Worden told him.

"I wouldn't go that far." Munch raised an eyebrow. "But you're much easier to look at than Frank is."

Indeed, Pembleton had been giving him the stink-eye for the last two days because he hadn't gotten a chance to work his first murder.

"That still doesn't mean I have any opinion of you at all."

Craig managed a cynical smile of his own. "Of course not."