his left hand , cragged with dirt , fisted a bouquet of pink gerbera daisies , and a glistening track lined his dusty right cheek from his eye to his bushy red beard as he recounted for reporters how he had heard screeching tires and screaming voices in the intersection behind him , how he had turned toward the commotion only to see a bullet-shaped tube of lipstick and a crumpled white tissue roll and tumble past him , ushered along by cold , gray swaths of fog .