The lieutenant and I were standing beside a fold-out card table on which sat clipboards, tape-recorders, and a telephone that was connected to the recorder. I turned and saw Joe Melton pedaling his one-speed bicycle amid the fire trucks, EMS vehicles, and squad cars, making his way across the parking lot. The emergency lights gleamed on his shiny bald head, giving him a macabre fun-house appearance.

"His name's Melton," I said. "Don't make that mistake again."

The lieutenant winced. "Sorry, Detective Krantz. Didn't mean anything by it."

Melton never complained about the nickname, but I knew he harbored a constant hurt inside. According to Melton, so did I, not about the nickname, but that we share a need to find ways to live in a world that's falling apart around us.

In the five years since I met him at a stress reduction seminar, Melton had helped me with small disturbances. Domestic disputes. An occasional suspect holed up. But never when a crowd was nearby. And he never helped anyone else on the police force. Just me.

I pushed the lieutenant aside, ducked yellow crime-scene tape, and hurried through the crowd. Melton would need my help. He couldn't handle crowds. He hated them. He tended to lose his breath and pass out.

Most of the people in the crowd were emergency personnel, but there were reporters and next-of-kin, too. Newscasters stood in front of cameras and spoke overly loud, giving the particulars of the case.

Rappahannock College...

Fredericksburg, Virginia...