“Multiple witness reports. Seen moving through neighborhoods connected to a string of burglaries.” “No—no—I didn’t—I don’t—” His breath hitched. He sagged against the cruiser as I guided him toward the door, sobbing now, words tumbling out faster than he could control them.
“I wake up places,” he said, voice cracking. “I don’t know how I get there. I just—sometimes I wake up.” At the time, all I heard was desperation. And desperation, I thought, was exactly what guilt sounded like.