He stepped into the room and closed the door as Evangeline came out of the bathroom holding the bag from the trash can.

"Sir, we have to keep the door open when we're working inside a room. Those are the rules."

He blocked her way to the door.

"Did you see the photograph?"

"What? Sir, I have to open the-"

"Did you see the photo on the computer? On the bed?"

He pointed to the laptop and watched her eyes. She looked confused but didn't turn.

"What photo?"

She turned to look at the sagging bed and then back to him with a look of confusion and growing annoyance on her face.

"I didn't take anything. You call Mr. Barrs right now if you think I took somethin'. I'm an honest lady. He can have one of the other girls search me. I don't got your photo. I don't even know what picture you mean."

Gladden looked at her a moment and then smiled.

"You know, Evangeline, I think maybe you are an honest lady. But I have to be sure. You understand."

The Law Enforcement Foundation was on Ninth Street in Washington, D.C., a few blocks from the Justice Department and FBI headquarters. It was a large building and I assumed other agencies and foundations funded from the public trough were housed here as well. Once I was in through the heavy doors I checked the directory and took the elevator to the third floor.

It looked like the LEF had the entire third floor. From the elevator I was greeted by a large reception desk behind which sat a large woman. In the news business we call them deception desks because the women they hire to sit behind them rarely let you go where you want to go or see whom you want to see. I told her I wanted to speak to Dr. Ford, the foundation director quoted in the New York Times article about police suicides. Ford was the keeper of the database to which I had to get access.

"He's at lunch. Do you have an appointment?"

I told her I had no appointment and put one of my cards down in front of her. I looked at my watch. Quarter to one.

"Oh, well, a reporter," she said as if the profession were synonymous with convict. "That's entirely different. You have to go through the public affairs office before it is even decided that you may speak to Dr. Ford."

"I see. You think there's anybody in public affairs or are they out to lunch, too?"

She picked up the phone and made a call.

"Michael? Are you there or are you on lunch? I have a man here who says he is from the Rocky Mountain News in-No, he first asked to see Dr. Ford."

She listened a few moments and then said okay and hung up.

"Michael Warren will see you. He says he has a one-thirty appointment so you'd better hurry."

"Hurry where?"

"Room three oh three. Go down the hall behind me, take your first right and then it's the first door on the right."

As I made the trek I kept thinking that the name Michael Warren was familiar but couldn't place it. The door to 303 opened as I was reaching for it. A man of about forty was about to step out when he saw me and stopped.

"Are you the one from the Rocky?"

"Yes."

"I was beginning to wonder if you took a wrong turn. Come on in. I only have a few minutes. I'm Mike Warren. Michael if you use my name in print, though I prefer you don't use it and talk to the staff here instead. Hopefully I can help you with that."

Once he was behind his cluttered desk I introduced myself and we shook hands. He told me to take a seat. There were newspapers stacked on one side of the desk. On the other side were photos of a wife and two children, angled so that Warren could see them as well as his visitors. There was a computer on a low table to his left and a photo of Warren shaking the president's hand on the wall above it. Warren was clean shaven and wore a white shirt with a maroon tie. The collar was frayed a bit where his afternoon whiskers rubbed against it. His jacket was draped over the back of his chair. His skin was very pale and set off by dark sharp eyes and straight black hair.

"So what's up? Are you in the Scripps D.C. bureau?"

He was talking about the parent company. It maintained a bureau of reporters that fed Washington stories to all papers in the chain. It was the office Greg Glenn had suggested I go through earlier in the week.

"No, I'm out from Denver."

"Well, what can I do you for?"

"I need to talk to Nathan Ford or maybe whoever is directly handling the police suicide study."

"Police suicide. That's an FBI project. Oline Fredrick's the researcher handling that with them."

"Yes, I know the FBI is involved."

"Let's see." He picked up the desk phone but then put it back down. "You know, you didn't call ahead on this, did you? I don't recognize the name."

"No, I just got into town. It's a breaking story, you could say."

"Breaking story? Police suicide? That doesn't sound like deadline stuff. Why the hurry?"

Then it struck me who he was.

"Did you used to work for the L.A. Times? The Washington bureau? You that Michael Warren?"

He smiled because he, or his name, had been recognized.

"Yes, how'd you know?"

"The Post-Times wire. I've been scrolling it for years. I recognized the name. You covered Justice, right? Did good stuff."

"Until a year ago. I quit and came here."

I nodded. There was always a moment of uneasy silence when I crossed paths with somebody who had left the life and was now on the other side of the line. Usually, they were burnouts, reporters who grew tired of the always-on-deadline and always-need-to-produce life. I once read a book about a reporter written by a reporter who described the life as always running in front of a thresher. I thought it was the most accurate description I'd read. Sometimes people got tired of running in front of the machine, sometimes they got pulled in and were left shredded. Sometimes they managed to get out from in front of it. They used their expertise in the business to seek the steadiness of a job as a person who handled the media rather than was part of it. This is what Warren had done and somehow I felt sorry for him. He had been damn good. I hoped he didn't feel the same regret.

"You miss it?"

I had to ask him, just to be polite.

"Not yet. Every now and then a good story comes along and I wish I was in there with everybody else, looking for the odd angle. But it can run you ragged."

He was lying and I think he knew I knew it. He wanted to go back.

"Yeah, I'm beginning to feel it some myself."

I returned the lie, just to make him feel better, if that was possible.

"So what about police suicides? What's your angle?"

He looked at his watch.

"Well, it wasn't a breaking story until a couple days ago. Now it is. I know you only have a few minutes but I can explain it pretty quickly. I just… I don't want to be insulting but I'd like for you to promise me what I say here is in confidence. It's my story and when it's ready, I'm going to break it."

He nodded.

"Don't worry, I understand completely. I won't discuss whatever it is you are going to tell me with any other journalist unless that other journalist specifically asks about the same thing. I may have to talk about it with other people here at the foundation or in law enforcement, for that matter. I can't make any promise in that regard until I know what we are talking about."

"That's fair."

I felt myself trusting him. Maybe because it is always easy to trust somebody who has done what you have done. I also think I liked telling what I'd learned to somebody who would know its value as a story. It was a form of bragging and I wasn't above it. I started.

"At the start of this week I began working on a story about police suicide. I know, it's been done before. But I had a new angle. My brother was a cop and a month ago he supposedly committed suicide. I-"