Atmosphere by Michael Laimo Page A

around his waist.  
    The outer appearance of the 13th looked exactly as he remembered it from his last visit two years ago: chipped brickface hiding the building's infrastructure, the weather- beaten arched doorway basked in dull green paint, a big metal 'thirteen' fringed with rust identifying the station.
    He entered and immediately smiled, the work environment triggering instant memories of the past. Some things never changed.
    The first thing he noticed were the community policing charts and robbery beat maps, still posted in the same exact place they had been for the last twenty years: to the left, on the dull-as-dull-can-be gray walls. As a matter of fact, everything in the precinct possessed the same sallow flavor. Ceiling to furniture to floors, as if the room itself were ill and all the color had been drained from its veneer. The sickly gray hue gave him the impression of the shade a body retains after rigor mortis sets in. And then there were those scary art prints hanging crookedly amidst the charts, faded and seemingly untouchable like petrified fungi growing on a tree trunk. They'll be there in another twenty years, Frank thought, recalling the somber feelings the environment elicited when desk duty ran overtime, it always feeling like he were being institutionalized.
    Beyond the phone system and the recent addition of computers, the 13th precinct remained virtually the same as it did when he last worked here eleven years ago.
    Frank quickly thought back to the Summer of 1990, when he and Diane had vacationed to California. He took a few hours to pay visit to his telephone acquaintances at the 71st in Los Angeles—friends he made while researching a murder case he worked on the previous year.   
    Frank hadn't believed his eyes when he first laid sight on the working environment in L.A. It was like he had just stepped into a country club. Polished floors, clean walls, organization comparable to that of a library. And the technology— unbelievable . Radar maps of the city; computerized composite programs storing over six thousand simulated facial features; infrared tracking devices. And funny: in comparison to the crusty coffee pots at the 13th, those lads in LA sported a nifty cappuccino maker complete with brass pots and gourmet coffee. No comparison. The stations in New York were virtual slums compared to those in Los Angeles. But in Frank's ongoing opinion, all that polish—yellow walls, cushiony furniture, espresso—it kind of softened the ethic of those who worked in it. Certainly there was no intent to think less of them—it wasn't easy being a cop in L.A. But it took a real tough , hard-as-nails guy to work as one in New York.
    The case that had earned Frank friends in LA resulted in all his New York associates nicknaming him 'the psychic detective', a moniker that lasted a good two years. A tip from Inspector Morris at the L.A.P.D. revealed that a local businessman named John Douglas, who’d had a very public, ongoing marital dispute, hadn't shown up at work for a week, and was eventually reported missing. Inspector Morris' research discovered that Douglas had flown to New York's JFK two days before his wife left for business in Manhattan. Morris notified Frank at the 13th, who subsequently looked into it. As details developed, Frank found out that Douglas had stalked his wife while here, following her upon her arrival at the airport to the New York Hilton, and later all around the city as she went about her business. He eventually discovered her capping off her second night in town snuggled up in her hotel room with a business associate.
    He murdered them both, shooting each of them three times with a semi-automatic.
    Although assumed to be hiding somewhere in the city, there had been no immediate sign of Douglas' whereabouts following the murders. Frank, listening to his instinct, put a stakeout on a pawn shop in which the owner claimed a man fitting the suspect's