On the driveway to a house that had never been built was the dried-blood imprint of a shoe’s heel, half of one, anyway, partly obscured by an automobile tire track. Probably a man’s shoe, possibly a woman’s oxford.

“So our killer pulled in here,” I said, kneeling over the partial heel print in the driveway, taking a flash picture, “made two trips hauling ‘garbage’ out of his trunk, making this heel print…” I glanced toward the street. “… then he took the hell off, backing over and partially smearing it…”

I got up and went to the street. Skid marks were burned into the gutter. Whether these were marks made by the car screeching to a stop, or peeling out, it was impossible to say. I took another picture.

“He was headed south,” Fowley said.

I nodded, rising.

As if the skid marks had come to life, squealing tires behind us announced a patrol car pulling in. Two uniformed cops climbed quickly out.

One of the cops was lanky, about thirty, the other was much younger, a rookie with a linebacker build; hard-eyed and pasty-faced under their uniform caps, both were undoing the safety straps of their holstered revolvers.

“Take it easy, fellas!” Fowley called out, holding up his hands; mine were already up. “I’m a reporter on the Examiner.”

Then Fowley reached inside his suitcoat pocket and the revolvers jack-in-the-boxed into the cops’ hands.

“Jesus Christ, boys,” Fowley sputtered, “I said I’m a reporter! Fowley’s the name! Let me show you my i.d.”

“Get ’em up,” the older one said, then to his partner added, “Check his i.d.”

The young one made his way over to reach inside Fowley’s coat and have a look.

“He’s okay,” the young cop said.

Nobody bothered to check my i.d.-the camera in my hand was apparently sufficient: I was an Examiner photographer.