He paid little attention to them. He was looking out across the grounds, watching leaves falling from the trees. Cool night last night and the cool nights brought autumn that much faster this far north. Second of September and already it was beginning. Stray leaves fell from the big oaks and maples, clustering around gravestones and blowing around the doors of crypts. Fingerman came from inside, stood there, a good cop for the most part, but big and gangly the way they built kids these days, weaned on too many cop shows, always going on about his “gut-instinct” and “bad feelings” like one of those carefully pressed and polished Hollywood cops on the tube. Too stern, too cool, lots of bullshit dramatic pauses like he was David Caruso or one of those glamour boys reading from a script. But that’s the way they turned ‘em out these days down at the Academy. Like they were all pressed from the same mold. “Pretty cut and dried, you figure?” Wilkes asked him. “Whatever is in this business?”
