“Can you explain this?” The detective slides a sheet torn from the Pad of Death across the table.

I have to admit a feeling of pride in the cartoon drawing of the man impaled on a spike. I’m getting better. The likeness is almost perfect. I happen to know that the man – the real life one as opposed to the one in the drawing – died yesterday in a tragic accident. He too was found impaled on a spike. He’d been waiting for someone to come and repair his malfunctioning electronic gates when he lost patience and tried to vault them. He was my boss. My former boss.

“Not really.” I look around the featureless room for a moment and draw out a long breath. “I drew it, if that’s what you mean.”

“You must understand why I&...

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