“You slammed a guy’s face into a car?” Nate asks when he walks in.

“I moved the gentleman out of possible ongoing traffic into a position where the car happened to be standing. It was for his own safety. When he turned to thank me, he slipped and fell into the car.”

“That was quite a slip. He broke his nose and lost four teeth.”

“Boy, that really puts things into perspective. How do you know about this?”

“You mean other than the fact that it’s on the news? The Paterson cops have already called here, looking for your written statement.”

“I’ll call them later. Let me have the files.”

“I’m not sure if I can find the key to my desk,” he lies. “Maybe if you told me what was going on, it would jog my memory. You know about memory jogging, don’t you?”

I shake my head. “Confidential.”

“We’re partners. Do you know what that means? Or did you forget that, too?”

Nate has a point, so I decide to tell him about Sean’s story and his scrapbook. As when I told Jessie, I leave out Sean’s name, since that’s the only actual promise of confidentiality that I made to him.

When I’m done, he says, “That’s it? I came in at seven o’clock for that? You’re wasting your time.”

I nod. “I know. The guy must have been spooked that he was in the bar with a woman who got snatched and probably killed a few minutes later. So he followed the case carefully; he felt connected to it.”

“Exactly. You’re not as dumb as you look.”

I spend the next couple of hours looking through the files. It’s weird to read my own notes, knowing it’s my handwriting but having no recollection of writing any of it.

I was the arresting officer but not the lead detective on the case. That was Hector Davila, the ranking detective in the department. He’s a terrific cop who has been around forever; that much I remember.

Not surprisingly, nothing I see causes me to have any question that the arrest was legitimate and John Nicholson is the likely perpetrator. The evidence is circumstantial, but compelling, and at the very least I can say to Sean that I did my due diligence, and that I’ve found nothing to make me think he was involved.

“You satisfied?” Nate asks when I’m done.

“Satisfied.”

He puts the file back where it was, and I head to administration to do the paperwork necessary to get back on the job. It seems like a lot, but I plow through it a page at a time, and I’m done in forty-five minutes.

I also have to sit through two re-entry interviews, which are uneventful until they start asking me things about my life that I can’t answer. Fortunately the interviewers are aware of my issues, so they gloss over the gaps.

I’m wrapping up the last of the interviews when Nate sticks his head in the door. “You almost finished?”

I look at the interviewer, who nods.

“Almost,” I say.

“Then you’re finished. We’ve got to move; a jogger found a murder victim in Eastside Park.”

“Was the body buried?” I ask.

“No. And it’s not exactly a body.”

During the ten-minute drive to the park, Nate updates me on the little we know so far. “It’s a severed head. No trace of the torso, at least not yet.”

“And a jogger found it?” I ask.

“Yeah. How come joggers always seem to be the ones to find bodies? Makes me glad I don’t exercise.”

As soon as we get to the park, the location we’re looking for is obvious. There are a bunch of cop cars, a coroner’s van, and two police forensic teams.

The action is about a hundred yards from the tennis courts, not far from a runner’s path. It’s not the kind of place you’d want to leave a severed head if you didn’t want it discovered. It’s definitely a place you’d leave it if you wanted to send a message.

We are the ranking detectives on the scene; it will be our case. As soon as we get there, the cops who were here first update us on what they know, which isn’t much. The unlucky jogger is in a nearby car, waiting to be interviewed, and the coroner is here and is awaiting our okay to remove the head.

Forensics people are also here, doing their jobs and searching for evidence, trace and otherwise. No identification has been made yet, which makes sense, since the deceased probably wouldn’t be carrying a wallet with ID in his mouth. Fingerprints are obviously going to be a bit difficult to get as well.

Once we’ve consulted with everyone, I say, “Okay, let’s get a look at our victim.”

One of the officers leads us over, and everyone parts to let us through. Because of Nate’s size, they have to make a wide path.

Within moments we’re in the front, looking down at the severed head, which almost seems contorted in a smile.

What I’m looking at stuns me. “I can make the identification,” I say.

Nate turns to me in surprise. “Who is it?”

“Sean Connor.”