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know the highlights of Atkins’ career with us. Certainly. We shouldn’t cover stars with an okra basket. Last week, for the nineteenth–”
    “Twentieth,” Atkins corrected him, holding up his pen for emphasis.
    “For the twentieth time, he brings in Mishkin, the notorious evildoer. His crime? His unvarying M.O.? He breaks into apartments and moves all the furniture around. He redecorates.” Kinderman shifted his remarks to Atkins. “This time we send him to Psycho, I swear it.”
    “How does Homicide fit into this?” asked Ryan
    Atkins turned to him, expressionless. “Mishkin leaves messages threatening death if he ever comes back and finds something out of place.”
    Ryan blinked.
    “Heroic work, Atkins. Homeric,” said Kinderman. “Ryan, have you anything to tell me?”
    “Not yet.”
    “Then why are you wasting my time?”
    “I just wondered what was new.”
    “It’s very cold out. Also, the sun came up this morning. Have you any more questions of the oracle, Ryan? Several kings from the East have been waiting their turn.”
    Ryan looked disgusted and left the room. Kinderman followed him with his gaze and when the door had closed he looked at Atkins. “He bought the whole thing about Mishkin.”
    Atkins nodded.
    The detective shook his head. “The man hears no music,” he said.
    “He tries, sir.”
    “Thank you, Mother Teresa.” Kinderman sneezed and reached for a Kleenex.
    “God bless you.”
    “Thank you, Atkins.” Kinderman wiped his nose and got rid of the tissue. “So you’re getting me the Gemini file.”
    “Right, sir.”
    “After that see if anyone has claimed the old lady.”
    “Not yet, sir. I checked when I came in.”
    “Call the Washington Post, the distribution department; get the name of Kintry’s route boss and run it through the FBI computer. Find out if he’s ever been in trouble with the law. At five in the morning in the freezing cold chances are that the killer wasn’t out for a stroll and came across Kintry just by accident. Somebody knew that he’d be there.”
    The clatter of a teletype machine began to seep through the floor from below. Kinderman glanced toward the sound. “Who can think in this place?”
    Atkins nodded.
    Abruptly the teletype stopped. Kinderman sighed and looked up at his assistant. “There’s another possibility. Someone on Kintry’s paper route might have killed him, someone he’d already delivered a paper to before he got to the boathouse. He could have killed him and then dragged him to the boathouse. It’s possible. So all of those names should go into the computer.”
    “Very well, sir.”
    “One more thing. Almost half of Kintry’s papers had yet to be delivered. Find out from the Post who called in and complained that they didn’t get their paper. Then cross them off the list and whoever is left–whoever didn’t call in–feed their names to the computer as well.’’
    Atkins stopped writing in his notepad. He looked up at the detective with surmise.
    Kinderman nodded. “Yes. Exactly. On Sunday people always want their funny papers, Atkins. So if someone didn’t call and say they wanted their paper there could only be two reasons–either the subscriber is dead or he’s the killer. It’s a long shot. Couldn’t hurt. You should check those names also with the FBI computer. Incidentally, do you believe there will come a day when computers will be able to think?”
    “I doubt it.”
    “Me, too. I once read some theologian was asked this question and he said that this problem would give him insomnia only when computers started to worry that maybe their parts were wearing out. My sentiments. Computers, good luck, God bless them, they’re okay. But a thing made out of things cannot think about itself. Am I right? It’s all ka–ka, saying mind is really brain. Sure, my hand is in my pocket. Is my pocket my hand? Every wino on M Street knows a thought is a thought and not some cells or chazerei going on in the brain.