"I'm sorry, you can't visit him," the policewoman at the front desk said. "But he'll be out tomorrow, first thing."

Having barely gathered the courage to see Dale, Lizzie did not feel she could talk to him without him being safely locked behind bars. She wanted closure but not enough to face him undefended.

Her hesitation was so obvious that the officer continued, "He'll be out, no bail. Don't worry, he's sleeping it off," she misinterpreted Lizzie's disappointment.

There would be no last words. Lizzie had no alternative but to go home. It had been difficult for her to convince herself to enter the station, but it was nothing compared to having to exit it, again left without a voice. She'd leave for Canada, Dale would continue in his ways. No one would stop him from hurting someone else.

Through blue uniforms, avoiding lines of people waiting with papers in their hands, she passed a row of handcuffed men, all similarly dressed, in shirts and jeans, with obvious signs of violence dispersed among them: the black eye, the bloody lip. Bruises like the ones she used to have told a story of a bar fight that needed external arbitration.

The automatic door opened when it sensed Lizzie in its proximity. Nothing was stopping her from leaving and never looking back, forgetting all about Warsa Park. Bury it, and never open that box. Leave it with Pizzie.

She turned around and went back to the information desk. The officer, having a deja vu, maintained her polite smile, but was clearly over Dale's concerned girlfriend.

"It's a few hours," she said. "Just be here, first thing in the morning, when he gets out."

"It's..." Lizzie trailed off, but the woman's eyes were not impatient. Curious, mostly, despite her thin eyebrows not moving. "Where can I file a complaint?"

"You want to file a complaint?"

"Yes," Lizzie looked around to see at what desk she'd be sent.

"Depends on the type."

The officer evaluated the woman in front of her, her yellow sundress in contrast with the clouds outside. A short denim jacket was all she knew to put on to navigate the cold weather. In a sea of raincoats and scarfs, she stood out.

"I'm not really sure..." Lizzie made the woman finally break into a sigh of exasperation. "I think... domestic violence?"

Lizzie was taken into an office to make a statement, she was told. An officer would be right with her.

"I'm sergeant Jerry Salt," a mustache entered, spread like a black caterpillar over a sandwich that the man wearing said mustache obviously enjoyed. He was in uniform, but it looked too tight on him. A greasy hand shook Lizzie's hand, then his lunch was dropped on the papers on his desk. Clearly, none of them were of importance to him.

"So, name, first..." 

"Lizzie Taylor. Ursu," Lizzie corrected.

"Mrs. Oorsoo, I am here to take your statement. Let's start from the beginning because I assume since it's domestic violence, it's not just one incident, there are a few of them. If you could start with the latest, maybe it's easier to remember the specifics."

Lizzie realized what his first question would be, before the man behind the desk continued, "When did the most recent incident occur?"

There were photos of three kids, no wife, decorating office furniture with smiling faces. He wasn't in the pictures, either. 

"Six years ago," Lizzie saw him leave the sandwich he was about to reconsider.

"Six years?" He leaned back into his chair. "It will be harder to prove. Maybe you have some medical records? Witnesses? Some people you told? We need everything we can get."

"Some people knew, but no one witnessed anything more than him taking his anger out on chairs," she thought of Lana. Gathering her hands in her lap, she avoided thinking about the one piece of evidence she had of Dale's brutality: her marks. Only if necessary, she'd expose Pizzie.

"It's not impossible," officer Salt said, seeing her discouraged. "We just need all the ammo we can get."

"Why don't you tell me what happened?" he pushed a form on the desk, towards her. "We'll fill this out after we see how best to put it into words. "So, when was the incident, six years ago? A date, maybe?"

Lizzie didn't really remember specifics. Her years with Dale were a long string of hazy hours and angry sex, washed with beer and threats of violence. Those were the good days. In the worst days, she would wake up, four days missing from her memory, and new bruises on her, bracelets of open wounds on her wrists and ankles. Because she drank too much, Dale said. What were new bruises, over old, consensual ones?

"I have some... scars on my... body," she said, not looking at the officer. "But they were not all made by him. Or against my will."

Sargeant Salt looked at her, then switched his tone into a more comforting one. "A tech guy can take some pictures, later." Before she could fret over how to show her scars to multiple people without taking her dress off and inadvertently showing too much of her, he continued, "As I've said, we need everything we can get. It's hard enough with more recent cases, with fresh bruises, and demonstrated patterns. It doesn't look like we have a lot, right now, to be honest."

"We'll still try our best," he consoled her. "Hold him longer here. Just... let's build a case. The process is long and you will have to attend hearings," the officer explained. "It's not ideal."

"I'm newly married," Lizzie remembered out loud. "Is it going to... take long?"

"Look, you want me to be honest, Mrs. Ursu? It's a long shot, at best. Go be married, you did your part. You told me. I will personally investigate Kazinsky's whereabouts after he gets out. Make a few calls in California, talk to his PO. There's no reason to fight him yourself."

Lizzie felt as if she had never fought him. "I'm afraid... he'll hurt someone else."

"He might, but that's on him. You do your part, write that statement. You told the police, me. It's up to me to make sure he doesn't."

"Just leave him..." Unpunished, Lizzie didn't say. 

"I know it's hard, but there's a limit someone can do for justice, without hurting themselves. There's no reason to put your life on hold for a trial that doesn't stand a lot of chances. I'll watch him, put some alerts on him in California. If he repeats, your statement might come in handy."

"Besides," he encouraged her, resuming working on his sandwich, "Guys like him? They always cross the line. He'll cross another line, and we'll get him with something."

"Something like... grenades?" Lizzie asked, her seriousness making the middle-aged man almost choke. 

"Grenades?!" The officer was more interested now, coming closer to his desk, his posture straightening in his chair. "Dale Kazinsky has grenades lying around?"

Lizzie nodded, "Back in Warsa Park. He also has guns, about fifty of them, only a few of them legally his."

The sandwich was abandoned.

"Tell me more about those guns. You give us enough for a search warrant, and we'll take it from there. The only testimony you will have to give is if he fights the warrant. And if we find what you describe there... there is no way anyone can question your motives. One statement, you let us take it from there."