Well, you can tell by the way I use my walk
I'm a woman's man, no time to talk
A pigeon had landed on Jim Moriarty's stomach, pecking at his buttons and ruffling it's wings, but it flies away in a rustle of noise at the sudden sound of the Bee Gees blasting from its perch's pocket.
Music loud and women warm
I've been kicked around since I was born
There is the quietest plop of blood dripping from Jim's eyebrow and into the pooling blood around his head. Another phone, smashed by the carelessness with which it was dropped, lies metres from his head.
And now it's all right, it's OK
And you may look the other way
Scuffled grazes in the ground make patterns around his body. Perhaps dancers were practicing up here earlier. Or roller skaters, or punks with steel toed boots.
We can try and understand
The New York Times' effect on man
The ring tone echoes around the roof top and is heard by a passing nurse who had snuck up to the top of the stair well for a smoke. She'd heard voices earlier but had thought nothing of it.
Whether you're a brother
Or whether you're a mother
She opens the door onto the roof slowly, unsure if there is actually someone waiting up here to catch her off duty. She spies the body straight away but is in no way concerned. She's seen enough of the dead and the dying to be quite calm about unconscious bodies.
You're stayin' alive, stayin' alive
She approaches the body cautiously. Perhaps they've fainted. Perhaps they were smoking up here too and they had an asthma attack. Perhaps they fell asleep. Perhaps they're playing a trick on her. But she recognises the face. It's James Moriarty, the bloke from the court case. Stole the royal jewels or something. Had to do with that fraud detective.
Feel the city breakin'
And everybody shakin'
At first she's concerned this is a trick of the more dangerous kind, that she is about to become the next victim of this criminal she's barely even thought about. But there is a hole in the back of his head and a puddle of blood around him. He's most certainly dead.
She turns on her heel and runs for the door, slamming it behind her.
The roof top is silent again, but for the quiet plop of blood and the Bee Gees lulling the criminal to his sleep.
And we're stayin' alive, stayin' alive
Ah, ha, ha, ha
Stayin' ali-