Tim quickly turned on his heels and went back into the dark, forbidding interior of the building.

With her shoes still off and a thick black cable extending through a hole in the floor behind her, Jackie softly spoke into her headset. "I was afraid they'd try to go up. Maybe we could drop a phone down the stairwell from the roof."

In the aft bubble, Michael's five o'clock shadow was beginning to show. "We just told him to go down. Let's go get that window washer off the Columbia Tower ... if he's still alive."

Carl flew two blocks southwest, then turned so the setting sun would not shine in Michael's eyes. From the belly of the air crane, the basket swung back and forth and in the street below, the tower's dark shattered glass glistened like black diamonds amid smashed furniture, broken cement and crushed cars. The man hanging from the ninetieth floor didn't seem to notice them. Still strapped in his safety harness, his legs were limp, his head was bowed and right next to him, the scaffolding gently swayed in the breeze.

Jackie redirected camera three to get a better look, "Is he still alive?"

"I can't tell," Carl answered. "Wait, I think he moved his fingers."

She enlarged the picture and watched his hands until finally, his middle fingers moved again. "Poor guy, the straps have probably cut off his circulation. Let's bring the basket up under him."