He was on his way in from the garage, headed for the elevators when his briefcase burst open. He could've sworn he latched it properly, but today was full of these unlucky little happenings. Papers he'd meticulously organized went flying, along with graphic, full color photos from the morgue. Here a gunshot victim, there a stab wound, and way over there was a severed arm, stringy bits of muscle spilling from the gaping wound. For a moment he just stood there, wallowing in defeat while his work scattered across the lobby for all to see. Then with a profound sigh, he crouched and began gathering it.
He could feel security watching him, but he pretended not to notice. He didn't particularly want any help, not when it required drawing more attention to himself.