As he sat, Manning heard a surprising clicking sound from his anteroom. Any noise would be unexpected at this hour, as Manning’s secretary had gone home. Manning walked to the door and pushed on the handle. But it was stuck. He looked up and saw a metal point pushing into the doorframe, then another one several inches to the right. Manning yanked the door hard, again and again, harder and harder until his arm hurt and the door cracked open unwillingly. On the other side a student, armed with a wooden board and some screws, balanced on a stool, laughing as he tried to seal Manning’s door.

The offender’s cohort ran at the sight of Manning.

Manning grabbed the student from the stool. “Tutor! Tutor!”

“Just a prank, I tell you! Now let me go!” The sixteen-year-old instantly looked five years younger, and, hooked by Manning’s marble eyes, panicked.

He struck Manning several times and then sank his teeth into the man’s hand, which released its grip. But a resident tutor arrived and caught the student by the collar in the doorway.

Manning approached with deliberate steps and a cold stare. He stared so long, looking increasingly small and feeble, that even the tutor became uncomfortable and asked loudly what he should do. Manning looked down at his hand, where two bright spots of blood bubbled up in the teeth marks between the bones.

Manning’s words seemed to emerge directly from his stiff beard rather than his mouth. “Have him tell you the names of his accomplices in this endeavor, Tutor Pearce. And find out where he’s been drinking spirits. Then hand him to the police.”

Pearce hesitated. “Police, sir?”

The student protested, “Now, if that isn’t a scrubby trick, to call the police in a college matter!”

“At once, Tutor Pearce!”

Augustus Manning locked his door behind them. He ignored the fact that his breathing was heavy with fury as he resumed his place and sat up straight, with dignity. He picked up the New York Tribune again to remind himself of matters that were in desperate need of his attention. As he read J. T. Fields’s puff on the “Literary Boston” page, as his hand throbbed at the points where his skin was broken, the following thoughts, more or less, passed through the treasurer’s mind: Fields believes himself invincible in his new fortress… That same arrogance worn proudly by Lowell like a new coat… Longfellow remains untouchable; Mr. Greene, a relic, long a mental paraplegic… But Dr. Holmes… the Autocrat courts controversy only out of fear, not principle… The panic on the little doctor’s face as he watched what befell Professor Webster those many years ago—not even the murder conviction or the hanging, but the loss of his place, which had been earned in society by such a good name, by training and career as a Harvard man… Yes, Holmes: Dr. Holmes shall prove our greatest ally.

All over Boston, all through the night, policemen herded “suspicious persons” by the half-dozen, by order of the chief. Each officer eyed his colleagues’ suspicious persons warily as they registered them at the Central Station lest his own ruffians be adjudged inferior. Detectives in plainclothes, avoiding the uniforms, stalked upstairs from the Tombs—the underground holding cells—consorting in hushed codes and half-delivered nods.

The detective bureau, derived from a European model, had been established in Boston with the aim of providing intimate knowledge of criminals’ whereabouts, and therefore most of the chosen detectives were former rogues themselves. However, there were no sophisticated methods of investigation with which they were armed, so detectives reverted to old tricks (their favorites being extortion, intimidation, and fabrication) to secure their share of arrests and warrant their salaries. Chief Kurtz had done all he could to make sure that the detectives, along with the press, thought the new murder victim a John Smith. The last problem in the world he needed now would be his detectives trying to connive money from the wealthy Healeys’ grief.

Some of the gathered subjects were singing obscene songs or covering their faces with their hands. Others hurled curses and threats at the officers who brought them in. A few huddled together on wooden benches lining one side of the room. Every class of criminal was here, from high-tobers– the classiest crooks—down to window smashers, sneak thieves, and the prettily bonneted bludgets who lured passersby into alleys before their accomplices would do the rest. Warm peanuts were peppered down from above by pasty Irish urchins, who were kneeling at the public balcony, holding greasy paper bags, and taking aim through the rails. They supplemented these projectiles with a round of rotten eggs.

“You heard anyone swelling about croaking a man? You listening here?”

“Where did you get that gold watch chain, boy? This silk handkerchief?”

“What’re you planning to do with this billy?”

“How ‘bout it? You ever try to kill a man, chum, just to see how it is?”

Red-faced officers shouted out these questions. Then Chief Kurtz began detailing Healey’s demise, skating skillfully around the victim’s identity, but before long he would be interrupted.

“Hey, Chiefy.” A big black rogue coughed in bemusement, his bulging eyes fixed on the corner of the room. “Hey, Chiefy. What’s with the new darky booly-dog? Where’s his uniform? I don’t think you’re about to recruit nigger detectives. Or can I apply too?”

Nicholas Rey stood up straighter at the laughter that followed. He felt suddenly conscious of his lack of participation in the questioning, and of his plainclothes.

“Now, fellow, that ain’t no darky,” said a dapper string bean of a man as he stepped forward and surveyed Patrolman Rey with the look of an expert appraiser. “He looks to be a half–breed to me, and a mighty fine specimen at that. Mother a slave, father a plantation hand. That’s right, ain’t it, friend?”

Rey stepped closer to the line. “How about answering the chief’s questions, sir? Let’s help each other out if we’re able.”

“Handsomely said, Lily White.” The string bean held an appreciative finger to his thin mustache, which circled down from his lips to bracket his mouth, seeming to signal the start of a beard but dropping off abruptly before the chin.

Chief Kurtz thrust his blackjack at the diamond stud on Langdon Peaslee’s breastbone. “Don’t rile me, Peaslee!”

“Careful, won’t you?” Peaslee, Boston’s greatest safecracker, dusted off his vest. “That little luster’s worth eight hundred dollars, Chief, legitimately purchased!”

Laughter from all sides, including some detectives. Kurtz should not have let Langdon Peaslee wind him up, not on this day. “I got a sense you had something to do with the round of safes blown on Commercial Street last Sunday,” Kurtz said. “I’ll bag you with breaking the Sabbath laws right now, and you can sleep in the Tombs with the other twopenny pickpockets!”

Willard Burndy, a few spots down the line, guffawed.

“Well, I’ll tell you something about that, my dear chief,” Peaslee said, raising his voice theatrically for the benefit of the whole meeting room (including the suddenly rapt groundlings up in the high seats). “It sure weren’t our friend Mr. Burndy over there, who could pull off anything like the Commercial Street run. Or did those safes belong to an old ladies’ society?”

Burndy’s bright pink eyes doubled in size as he shoved men out of the way, clawing toward Langdon Peaslee and nearly igniting a riot among the rowdier crooks as he went, while the ragged boys above cheered and hooted. This entertainment held its own even against the secret rat pits that operated in North End cellars, and those charged twenty-five cents a head.

As officers restrained Burndy, a confused man was pushed out of line. He stumbled wildly. Nicholas Rey caught him before he could fall.