The sergeant said nothing. His footsteps came closer and to Nick's right. Out of the corner of his eye he caught a part of a thick-soled black shoe. The sergeant did not touch Nick's wallet and moved off to his right. Nick sneaked another look, trying not to move his head as the man continued to step south. The shoes were shined brogans, cuffed trousers, legs too short for Hargrave. Nick's shoulder was starting to sting now from the effort of holding most of his body weight. The stone in his palm was making its way through skin. The sergeant passed behind him and then wandered north a few steps. The sound of slow-moving traffic floated up from below. Above there was a soft chop of helicopter blades, getting louder. In the absence of a good I-95 morning wreck, the news pilots had responded to the shooting.

"Excuse me, Sergeant," Nick said, trying not to sound facetious, but knowing that he had never been good at not sounding facetious in such circumstances. "May I please stand up?"

Cameron had not tried a second time to come to his aid.

Another few seconds of silence passed.

"Yeah, alright, reporter. Stand."

Nick rocked back on his heels and stood slowly, palms out and away from his sides. Better to acquiesce. He turned to the sergeant first, a thick man, his girth around both the waistline and the chest. Straw-blond hair. Fifties and with eyes that somehow showed mirth and disdain at the same time. Those eyes cut over toward the back of the roof. Against the sky stood the exclamation point. Hargrave dressed in black. Cameron was next to him.

"You are disturbing a possible crime scene, Mr. Mullins," Hargrave said in a voice so soft that at first Nick started to ask him to repeat himself but then realized he'd heard every word distinctly.

Nick still had his hands out from his sides, palms toward them, a perfect opportunity to shrug his shoulders and look stupid. Hargrave ignored the gesture and started walking to the edge of the roof.