Agent Ramiel walked around the corner to his nondescript black Ford, got in and drove two blocks away from the crime scene. The details were burned into his eyes like afterimages. The detective's words kept coming up in his mind like an irritating song, "She was a nice girl, a waitress. She wasn't a whore."
Agent Ramiel parked near 56th street and paused to look over the notes he had written so far that morning. His notebook, though small enough to fit in his breast pocket, was meticulously organized by subject and date. His handwriting was small and precise. He liked to write his notes in the car after an interview, not during. It was too easy to miss contradictory expressions in the eyes, or subtle clues in gesture while trying to transcribe. He listened, he watched. His memory was infallible. And sometimes, as with writing down his dreams upon waking, he found that answers and understanding flowed from solitary contemplation after the fact.