Occam's razor

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It was colder without the snow and felt darker as a result. Even with the starlight and the feeble seepage from the street lamps around the corner, my eyes took longer to adjust than I expected.

The police officer at the bottom of the Arch Street alley looked up at me quizzically as I hesitated beside the car, my hands burrowing deep inside my pockets. “You okay, Lieutenant?” He was stringing a yellow “Police Line” tape across the way.

I shuddered and nodded, walking down the paved incline, careful of its neglected, broken surface. “Sure, Bobby. Still half asleep.”

He lifted the tape to let me pass. “Know what you mean. I been on nights for a week already. Still can’t get used to it.”

He was fresh from the academy, eager and curious, and, if statistics were any guide, destined to learn the ropes with us and then either enter the private sector, disillusioned and bored, or angle a job with the state police, assuming he passed their scrutiny.

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