Shortly after efforts turned from rescue to recovery at Ground Zero, I walked amid the rubble with a New York City police officer named “Mark.” It was just after daybreak over lower Manhattan, and the noxious odors of death, jet fuel and oppressive toxic dust still filled the air. We said nothing to each other as we stopped at the edge of a darkly stained area on the ground where bodies had fallen or people had jumped to their deaths. Debris and dust covered over portions of the grotesque paisley patterns that extended beyond yellow police tape that flapped in the morning breeze.
