The constable takes a right when he should have taken a left. I debate whether to follow him. I don’t. I arrive at the West District on my own.
I enter the doors and after a moment the receiving constable waves me forward. He’s older and chubby, probably a couple of years from retirement, hasn’t chased down a suspect in years. He asks why I’m there and I tell him. He chuckles behind his bulletproof glass. “Have a seat. Someone will be with you in a minute.”
I sit, pick up a magazine about gardening, put it down. I don’t want to read about compost; I just want to go home.