Damien sat there for the rest of the night. Watching over his physical self.

Just before dawn, a dog walker discovered the body and called the police.

Damien watched dispassionately as the death scene became an official crime scene. Protocols and hierarchies were established as first responders turned the scene over to investigators, who handed control to the detectives.

It was all somewhat familiar to him, although he could not remember why.

As the CSI team began packing up their equipment, Damien realized that no one had looked in the grate. He walked over to the lead detective and tried to tell him that, but, of course, it was to no avail.

He stood next to the man as minions approached, reported, received orders, and went. This detective is not detecting, Damien thought. He would serve the community better as a traffic cop, directing people hither and yon.

He wandered through the crime scene, listening to brief clips of conversations and ended up next to a young female detective. As he arrived, she finished up with one resident and turned to another.

Damien listened as she skillfully questioned the potential witness. He didn't know why he was there. He was pretty sure he wouldn't be able to communicate with her. But it felt right.

He watched her work the crowd. Twice, uniformed officers came over with information. He could not hear the first report, but noticed the puzzled look on her face. He moved closer as the second officer came up and waited for her to finish with a neighborhood boy.

She was sitting on her haunches as she spoke with the boy. As she straightened, her creds folder, which was on a lanyard around her neck, swung free of her sweater and Damien recognized the Detective Sergeant shield; the name "Angie Jordan-Hill" printed in a bold font below the badge.

"No one recognizes him," the officer reported. "He is not from the neighborhood."

"Well, then look for a car that doesn't belong. Expand the perimeter to five blocks. He got here somehow, and it is a long walk from the Marta."

Angie turned back to the crowd. She thanked them all for their help and reminded them that they all had her card and to please call if they thought of anything else.

Damien followed her over to her boss. As the two detectives compared notes, he had a feeling of déjà vu. Would he wake up at some point and realize that this was all just a bad dream? If not a dream, how was it he had witnessed his own murder over and over again? How does that happen?

Another thought occurred to him; was he in real-time now, or was this just another scene that had played out at a different time? His head hurt from the possibilities.

A raised voice pulled him back to the present..

"You're telling me this guy gets himself killed in one of the more desirable neighborhoods in Atlanta and you don't know who he is, where he came from, why he was here, or who shot him?"

Damien took in the expensive suit, the two flunkies standing slightly behind the speaker, and the dark Lincoln idling just outside the crime scene tape and immediately tagged him as a politician. The lead detective confirmed this when he addressed him as "councilman." Damien walked away. He didn't need to listen to the rest of it.

The councilman brought up the right questions. Damien felt troubled because he didn't have any of those answers. Everything before the shooting was a blank to him. The only memory he retained was a vague sense that someone he knew was in grave danger and he was the only one that could save them.