Disclaimers: Goren, Bishop and Eames belong to Dick Wolf, but I don't need to tell you that.
They were slowly sipping their way through two astonishingly bitter cups of diner coffee when their perp's girlfriend finally appeared. Relieved to abandon the strained pretext at idle chatter, Bobby rose to his feet but hung back. The boyfriend might be nearby. His cop's instincts barely stirred as Bishop approached the witness, badge in hand, calling out a greeting as she came to a halt. Of course Eames wouldn't have - the thought was interrupted by an explosion in his brain; set off by the startled, trapped look in the woman's eyes as they lifted to his partner's face and the way her shoulders tensed as her hand came out of her pocket. From his fantastic store of information sprang the fact that nerve impulses, traveling at up to 200 miles per hour, move at about one third the speed of the average handgun bullet and a little more than one quarter the speed of the sound waves generated by firing that handgun. Even as his body lunged forward and his mouth opened to howl a warning, Bobby knew it was too late.