Knocking.
   Knocking on the door.
   Eli Smith, ten year veteran of the Gainsville Homicide Squad, rolls over and climbs down from his loft bed while still half asleep.
   "What?" he asks groggily.  He opens the door.  Rick Stanton, from the first shift, stands there, notebook in hand.  "What?"
   "Got one of your guy's, over at [place]."
   Smith groans.  He wheels around back into his apartment.  "All right," he mumbles.  "All right."  On with some clothes, nighttime chic in slacks and a jacket over his pajamas.  He steps into the hall, blinking under the fluorescent lights, and follows Stanton down the hall.  He carries his shoes.
   Around a corner and here's the squadroom, people and phones bleating and hollering.