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Leo, before we disturb it. That’s what.”
    Frank muttered, “Ah, screw history.”
    “You got that wrong, Frank,” Sam said. “You can’t screw history, but history can always screw you.”
    Another minute or two passed. From the distance, near where the fires of the hobo camp flickered, came a hollow boom, and then another.
    “Sounds like a gunshot, don’t it,” Frank said, his voice uneasy.
    The younger cop laughed. “Maybe somebody just shot that hobo for the dollar you gave him.”
    Sam looked to the thin flames from the hobo camp. He and the other cops stayed clear of the camps, especially at night. Too many shadows, and too many angry men with knives or clubs or firearms lived in those shadows. He cleared his throat. “We got one dead man here. If anotherone appears later, we’ll take care of it. In the meantime, you guys looking for extra work?”
    The other cops just hunched their shoulders up against the driving rain, stayed quiet. That was the way of their world, Sam thought. Just do your job and keep your mouth shut. Anything else was too dangerous.

CHAPTER TWO
    From the rainy gloom, another man stumbled toward them, swearing loudly, carrying a leather case over his shoulder, like one of the hordes of unemployed men who went door-to-door during this second decade of the Great Depression, peddling hairbrushes, toothbrushes, shoelaces. But this man was Ralph Morancy, a photographer for the
Portsmouth Herald
and sometime photographer for the Portsmouth Police Department.
    He dropped the case on the railroad ties and said, “Inspector Miller. Haven’t seen you since your promotion from sergeant to inspector, when I took that lovely page-one photo of you, your wife, the police marshal, and our mayor.”
    Sam said, “That’s right. A lovely photo indeed. And I’m still waiting for the copy you promised me.”
    Ralph spat as he removed his Speed Graphic camera from the case. “Lots of people ahead of you. Can’t do your photo and be accused of favoritism, now, can I?”
    “I guess not. I remember how long it took you to getme another copy of a photograph, back when I was in high school.”
    The older man rummaged through his case, clumsily sheltering it from the rain with his body. “Ah, yes, our star quarterback, back when Portsmouth won the championship. How long did it take for me back then?”
    “A year.”
    “Well, I promise to be quicker this time.”
    Sam said, “Just take the damn photos, all right?”
    Ralph put a flashbulb in the camera with ease, like a magician performing the same trick for the thousandth time. “Anything special, Inspector?”
    “The usual body shots. I also want the ground around the body.”
    “Why’s that?”
    “Because I want photos of what’s not there,” Sam said.
    Frank Reardon stirred. “What’s not there? What kind of crap is that?”
    Sam played the flashlight beam around the corpse, the raindrops sparking in the light. “What do you see around the body?”
    “Nothing,” Leo said. “Mud and grass.”
    “Right,” Sam said. “No footprints. No drag marks. No sign of a struggle. Just a body plopped down in the mud, like he dropped from the sky. And I want to make sure we get the photos before the body’s moved.”
    He kept the flashlight beam centered on the corpse. The rain fell in straight lines, striking the dead man’s face. To Sam, the dead man looked like a wax dummy. There was a sudden slash of light, and Sam flinched as Ralph took the first photo. As Ralph replaced the bulb, hegroused, “Plenty of time for me to make tomorrow’s edition.”
    “No,” Sam said. “You know the arrangement, Ralph. We get twenty-four hours, first dibs, before you use any crime scene photos in the paper.”
    Another flash, and Sam blinked at the dots of light floating before his eyes. “Come on, Inspector, give me a break,” Ralph muttered. “Twelve hours, twenty-four hours. What difference does it make?”
    “If it’s twenty-four hours, it makes