Who answers questions without really answering them? And who disappears without leaving a trace? I told myself it was nothing. A tired man. A night worker with nowhere else to be. It wasn’t illegal to walk. It wasn’t illegal to be exhausted. Still, one thought refused to let go: if he was innocent, I’d see him again. And if I didn’t, that meant something else entirely.
I delivered the mugger to the station just before dawn. He went quiet the moment the cuffs came off, eyes darting like he was already calculating how much trouble he was in. The others took him back for questioning. Someone clapped me on the shoulder, said I’d done good. Another officer muttered that maybe this would finally give us something to work with.