This is not coincidence, but it is not necessarily a conspiracy either. At the time, of course, I didn't remark it. Even before Grootka's narrative surfaced, somebody from the police department's Public Relations office called and asked me to entertain a young historian named Agge Allyson: actually, whoever it was said something like “chat her up, the usual.” The idea was that I should consent to be interviewed by Ms. Allyson. So I agreed to go to lunch with her and suggested my favorite place, Pinky's, down on Jefferson. The meeting went very well—she was on time and nice to look at—but there was an initial moment when it almost went awry. I was sure she was about to say, “I'm something of a detective myself.” It's a line that detectives hear a lot. Often, I can see it coming, and it fills me with a horrible dread. Ms. Allyson was a fine-looking young woman and I didn't want her to say anything so banal, but how can you stop it? I fell back on a heartless remedy: a more deadly preemptive banality.
