As he parked he noticed a gray four-door Nissan that he knew belonged to a homicide detective he’d become friendly with during his time as a cops reporter. He grabbed his backpack, stuffed with a camera, notebooks, an iPad, and a digital recorder, and he climbed out of his car, locking it before heading across the street.

He’d gotten less than halfway to the police tape when a patrolman standing at the perimeter shone a flashlight in his face. The light clicked off quickly, and Andy recognized the burly black officer.

“How’s it going, Mike?”

The cop held his hand up and said, “Not yet, Andy.”

Andy stopped in the street. “What’s that?”

“Can’t let you in just yet.”

“Really?” They always let Andy in, or at least up to the porch to take a quick peek. “Why not?”

“Dunno.”

“Who’s the detective in charge? Is it Rauch? Tell him I’m here, he always lets me poke a head in. Won’t take but a minute.”

“Rauch isn’t in there.”

“Why are you breakin’ my balls tonight, Mike? I saw his Altima back there.”

“Rauch is around, but not in the house. Hasn’t been inside yet. I think he’s on a canvass. Go talk to him.”

“What’s he doing on a canvass if he hasn’t even looked at the scene yet?”

The cop did not answer. He looked a bit uncomfortable, but he also looked resolute. Andy knew he could whine about it a little more, but he also knew he wasn’t getting in that house right now.

He noticed a flashlight’s beam shining through a small opening in a boarded-up front window. There was definitely someone inside. “What’s going on?” he asked.

Mike turned away. “Man, go talk to Rauch.”

—

Andy found Detective Rauch five minutes later, a half block away, stepping down from the stoop of a duplex. From the look of him he hadn’t gotten any good information from anyone inside.

“Hey, Bobby. How’s your night going?”

Bobby Rauch was a wiry, thin, and balding fifty-year-old who always looked like he needed a sandwich more than he needed the cigarettes he constantly smoked. He kept walking as he said, “It’s goin’, Shoal.”

“How come you’re not over there at the murder? Seen ten thousand, seen ’em all?”

Rauch took the young reporter by the arm and turned him away from the duplex, and together they started walking up the sidewalk towards the house next door. He said, “Do me a favor and go back over the river. Come back in the morning.”

Andy looked at his watch. In a tone that was much more good-natured than smart-ass, he said, “Twelve fifty-eight a.m. It’s morning. Here I am.”

Rauch sighed. “Sorry, but I can’t let you get any closer to that scene.”