It might be my imagination, but I think he grimaces when he sees me. Truman’s stocky and bald with a thick neck and wide-set eyes. Of Irish-German descent, he blames behavioral quirks like his quick temper and fastidiousness on his grandmothers, who, though long dead, seem to have made lasting marks. When he’s out of earshot, we call him “the bull” or “bull Truman,” as much for the head-down stare he gives you when he’s angry as for his stubborn nature, but it’s mostly affectionate. Oliver Graves—medium height, slim, with straight dark hair swooped over his forehead, all prim and proper in a suit and tie—trudges alongside him, raises an eyebrow at the board, and takes a seat at one of the old desks. Teddy jogs in with a handful of papers. He’s changed his shirt and looks crisp and fresh, while I’ve sweated through my bloodstained blouse.

I’ve been busy—typed up my witness notes; taped the photos of our victim on the rolling whiteboard, one with his bruised face, another of his nail-bitten fingers, the smashed phone, and the larger scene of the incident; and written everything we know about him so far. Name: Jay Harper Kemp. Sex: male. Race: white. Age: twenty. Affiliations: University of Georgia student, political science major, Kappa Phi Omicron member.

“It’s not the first time a student has been hit crossing this intersection,” I begin before anyone can stop me. “In fact, Lumpkin Street is the second-most dangerous crosswalk for pedestrian crashes, with the most on Broad. A professor called this afternoon to report that he hit a female student last year. The light was green, but the student was talking on her phone and, he says, oblivious to the world around her. She rolled up on the hood and staggered off, seemingly uninjured. He yelled after her, but she just waved and kept walking up Baxter—he assumed to one of the dorms. She never filed a police report, and he couldn’t remember anything about her except that she was wearing a white dress. It’s clear the guy feels guilty, but it’s just further proof the crosswalk’s dangerous.”

“And the students are idiots,” Oliver mutters.

“Everyone under thirty is an idiot,” Truman thunders good-naturedly.

He pats Oliver, who just celebrated his twenty-seventh birthday, on the shoulder. We’re a young squad—for Homicide anyway. I’m twenty-nine and Teddy’s thirty-two.

“They all think they’re invincible, which,” Truman continues with a gesture to the whiteboard and our victim’s photo, “clearly they’re not. I can’t tell you how many times I’ve almost hit a student jaywalking and they just laugh and skip away—‘I almost died,’” he mimics, throwing his hands above his head. “Hilarious.” He shakes his head. “What else?”