“May I leave?” He looked, for the first time, faintly disappointed — because he had expected me to explode, to threaten, to give him something.

I gave him nothing but a polite question and a closed door.

I had smiled reading that report for a reason he could not have guessed, and would not understand for another two days: because a fabricated incident report, signed and filed, is not a shield.

It is a confession with a badge on it.

He had just handed me, in writing, proof that his department manufactured official documents.

I thanked him, silently, and I walked out to find my wife.