I stepped from the doorway out into the hall and stood there for a few minutes, staring down at the floor and allowing all of the past hour or so's thoughts to settle deep into my head... filing the evidence orderly into my categorical brain for safekeeping. When I finally glanced up I noticed Bosco standing down the hall from me, leaning against the wall beside the door to another room with his hands in his pockets, his eyes closed tight and his face turned towards the ceiling. I recognized this stance and the look on his face as Bosco's "deep in thought" look and I had to assume he was filing his information in an orderly fashion just as I had been moments before.

"How'd it go?" I asked, choosing a spot on the opposite wall and allowing my body to sink slowly to the floor until I was seated there across from him. I pulled my knees up towards my chest and rested my chin on them. I felt really unprofessional in that exact moment... but after all I'd seen and heard that morning, I was so far past giving a damn.

"It went." He responded, his eyes falling to meet mine as he also sunk to the floor, sticking his legs straight out in front of him and fumbling with the badge he held in his fingers. The badge that said "Detective Maurice Boscorelli -- NYPD Crime Scene Unit." I knew how hard he'd worked to get to this position... to sit here in front of me right now. If only he knew how close he'd come to blowing it that morning with his tirade towards the chief.

It had taken me a while to calm the chief down after that little episode in the hallway. He was totally prepared to can my partner right then and there. Thankfully I'd talked him into letting it go. Now we were sitting here together in this hallway, having both spent the past few hours doing the same things in different rooms with different people. It was clear now, sitting across from him, watching the look on his face and the exhausted position of his body, that regardless of the differences we had faced that morning, we'd both seen enough to last a long, long time.

Bosco sighed, dropping his badge to his lap and rubbing his eyes vigorously with the palms of his hands. He'd spent the last hour sitting alone in a room with a Backstreet Boy. A Backstreet Boy murder suspect. Who would have ever thought he'd do something like that? He'd asked questions to the young man -- although 'young'may not be a good word to use because Howie and Bosco were nearly the same age -- but anyway, the interview hadn't gone all that well. Mr. Dorough had spent nearly the entire time staring at the floor void of all emotion. This wasn't unusual. In fact, in all his years of working homocide cases, this was pretty typical. He answered Bosco's questions with simple "yes" and "no's" or phrases no longer than a few words. He didn't seem to have anything to hide.

"He said he was in bed when the screaming started. Said he jumped up and ran to the hall and over to his friend's room. Said he opened the door and saw him laying there and Brian screaming beside him. He tried to stop the bleeding... there was a lot... a whole lot. And he'd yelled for someone to call 911 and he'd waited until the ambulance arrived."

I listened to Bosco recount the details of Mr. Dorough's story and that's when I realized it... I realized what I'd found odd about the young man I had interviewed. Howie's details, Bosco's details, they were short and to the point, they were minimal at best and left a lot to be desired. Bed, the hall, his friends room. His friend lying there, Brian screaming, lots of bleeding. Call 911. These were the types of details we usually received at every case we worked and they so often led us absolutely no where.

I'd listened to Mr. Carter tell his story and something had struck me almost immediately. I'd found him a bit odd... a little eager... but only in those first few moments. He was quick to give an alibi, quick to set up his side of the story and so many times I would have said, "that's our best suspect right there." The guilty always seemed aimed and ready with stories and alibis, witnesses and reasons they could not be guilty... except that they were. As I'd continued to talk to Nick I'd started doubting myself. It's wasn't an eagerness to tell... it was a need to give the details... to share his story... to take the burdens and deposit them elsewhere.

Nick was like me.

I would walk into a scene and see the shape of the doorknob, the color of the carpet, whether or not the window blinds were shut or drawn. I would notice the tiny things like scars on a victims body, the color of hair, the way their lips were drawn in a frown or smile and the exact shape of every wound. I'd remember these things for days... sometimes weeks or months until eventually a new case came along and the images faded into the next set of graphic, unforgettable memories. I realized Nick was like me. He hadn't just seen a woman in the coffee shop or, a man at the desk, a mother with her son or a man on an elevator... he'd seen the purse, noticed the pen, the little boy was wearing overalls, the man on the elevator had a tan jacket and red cap.

He seemed to have the same sort of photographic memory... a memory that refused to let you forget the tiniest details.

And this... this could be a blessing or a curse.