Appetite and moral conscience appeased, Teddy surveys the throng of people. I do, too. Looking for anyone too eager and out of place or too nonchalant, hanging back but watching us under hooded eyes. My mother stands at the edge of the crowd. She nods, her shoulders straight, head erect, and then, with a look that suggests she thinks I’ve found what I was looking for, turns back toward Joe Brown Hall. A gray-haired man in a brown suit and overlarge tote bag pushes his way through the students.

“Get to class,” he shouts without any acknowledgment of the body in the street.

A handful scatter but only one or two start to walk away.

Teddy detaches himself from me.

“Before any of you leave,” he shouts, and holds his badge in the air—a few students duck. “We want to speak with those of you who witnessed the accident.” He doesn’t say “hit-and-run” or identify us as homicide detectives, and the students hover, unsure.

“The rest of you can go”—and when they don’t move—“this won’t count as an excused absence.”

That sends a few scrambling. One, a white girl with her head down and notebook clutched to her chest, makes a beeline for the student learning center.

“You,” I yell, and half a dozen students look up, startled. They stare as I march toward the sidewalk. I’m five nine, dark haired and green eyed, with a round face and angular body—not ridiculously tall or pretty, but tall enough and pretty enough to draw attention. The height plus the badge stops a few students in their tracks. “You were a witness. You need to stay.”

“But I—” The girl blinks helplessly.

“If you witnessed anything, I’d like you to wait—” I repeat, looking past her and all the others for a space out of the way but close enough that we can keep an eye on them “—on the learning center steps.” I gesture to the long concrete stairs behind her. “The rest of you can go.”

The techs are here in full force now. Police usher people back to their cars, set up roadblocks, and direct everyone away from the scene.

I see Aisha’s head above the crowd with a flood of relief. She’s the best forensic examiner we’ve got, the kind that handles everything from single vehicle crashes to multiple homicides with a determination and grace that makes the rest of us look somewhat philistine.

“What can you tell me?”

“Student. White male. Late teens, early twenties. Hit-and-run. Died on impact or very shortly thereafter.”

She nods and sweeps her long black hair into a tight bun. At first, she walks the perimeter, scanning the roads in both directions. Then she paces the length of the crosswalk, times the change of the light from green to yellow, yellow to red. Notes the split second between the red light and white walking man.