When I saw the body, my first thought was to just keep on walking.

This one had nothing to do with me.

There was no logical reason to get involved.

I managed two more steps. If the alleyway had been a little cleaner, there’s a chance I might have kept on going. Or if the guy had been left with a little more dignity, the scene might not have bothered me so much. But the way he’d been discarded-dumped like a piece of garbage-I couldn’t let it pass.

Maybe it was because I’ve had a few close calls in filthy alleyways myself, over the years. Or maybe because I have nowhere to really call “home,” either. But whatever the reason, I could feel a strange connection with the washed-up tramp. It was too late to give him any practical help-he was clearly dead-but I thought I could at least get someone to come and take care of his remains. I felt I owed it to him. Or even to myself. If I was a Good Samaritan for this helpless guy now, perhaps someone would do the same for me when my time came. I didn’t relish the idea of my bones returning to dust in a heap of cheeseburger wrappers and used condoms.

I stepped into the alley. The body was four yards away. It was lying on its back with its feet toward the sidewalk. Its arms were stretched out the opposite way, pointing back into the narrow passageway. The wrists were close together-not tied-and the hands were partly obscured by the debris that covered the ground.

I moved closer and saw there were bullet holes in the tramp’s clothing. I counted six. But it wasn’t the number that caught my eye. It was the pattern. A neat T shape. Four across the chest, level with the shoulders, and two below, straight down the sternum. Very precise shooting. The work of a professional. A police marksman, maybe, or a soldier. Not something you’d associate with a dead tramp. And not something you can easily ignore.