36

TUESDAY, 9:50 PM

THE SCENE AROUND THE RODIN MUSEUM was a madhouse. Simon hung at the back of the gathering crowd, rubbernecking with the unwashed. What was it that drew ordinary citizens to scenes of misery and chaos like flies to a pile of dung, he wondered.

I should talk, he thought with a smile.

Still, in his own defense, he felt that, in spite of his penchant for the dreadful and predilection for the morbid, he still hung on to a scrap of dignity, still guarded closely that morsel of grandeur regarding the work he did, and the public’s right to know. Like it or not, he was a journalist.

He worked his way toward the front of the crowd. He pulled his collar up, slipped on his tortoiseshell glasses, brushed his hair over his forehead.

Death was here.

So was Simon Close.

Bread and jam.