Eli Smith wheels a handcart through the coffee room and into the squadroom.  It is his day off, but around him his fellow detectives work to avenge the dead.
   "A midget fridge?"  Detective CM Gildehouse eyes Smith from his own desk.  "We /have/ a fridge, Smith.  It's in the coffee room, I'm sure you've seen it.  Big and brown, has a TV on top?"
   "Wanted my own."
   "/Why/?"
   "I don't trust you bastards," Smith calls over his shoulder as he rounds the corner into the back hallway.
   Here is a door.  It looks for all the world like the door to a janitor's closet, but for the plaque that reads "#203".
   Open the door, and here is a condensed apartment.  A loft bed dominates the far left corner; under it sit a wardrobe and a small desk.  The existing sink and cabinets--for this /was/ once a janitor's closet--share one wall with the door, and the wall to the right is covered in bookcases, crammed full of books and papers and a small television.  A dull Persian rug covers the floor; on it sit an old battered wing chair and a floor lamp.
   The little domicile even has a window.
   Smith battles his new dorm-style refrigerator into place next to the sink.
   "You have a place to plug that in?"
   Smith doesn't glance at his CO.  "Yeah, I'm good."
   "Smith, this is starting to get out of hand, what do you need with a /refrigerator/?"
   Smith plugs the minifridge in, turns around and wipes his brow with a handkerchief.  He grins at his CO.  "Johnson keeps stealing my eclairs."