5/12/2016 6:01 PM Brooklyn, New York.

I blink my eyes numerous times in a pathetic attempt to rid of the blurriness slightly obscuring my vision. My head thumps in a consistent rhythm like a drum. Ba-boom. Ba-boom. Ba-boom. All the while I stagger and stumble down the sidewalk a few blocks away from Dan's Gin Mill and Tavern. Twiddling the top part of an empty beer bottle in my fingers. I waddle by a fenced off playground, bringing two index fingers and placing them on the pressure points on both sides of my nose. This temporarily relieves me of the throbbing pain in my forehead and I take a glance through the fence and inside the playground. The area consists of a blue painted metal swing where to its left is a wooden building made up of a metal slide, which children smothered with scarves and beanies climb up to excitedly, only to slide down at the pace of a snail. Also, not to mention a few wobbly bridges leading to other platforms and climbing webs. However, most children seem occupied with the red seesaw and roundabout, challenging each other over how fast they can spin everyone else.

Whilst spectating the events occurring inside the playground, I catch sigh of something and time seems to slow down to a halt, as if in slow motion. A nicely groomed man, dressed in a white shirt, a buttoned up black and red flannel overlain by a long-sleeved black winter jacket. He pats down his jeans, wiping snowflakes off as he gets up off one of the multiple green wooden benches. Bringing his hands to his mouth almost as if to form a megaphone, he yells out to a child on the roundabout. A little girl, in a white fluffy coat, black tights with curly light brown hair, looks around alert, notices the man and then proceeds back to playing. The man shouts out again, clearly agitated. But the little girl simply ignores him. Eventually, the man has had enough and marches over, shoulders tense, grabs the little girl's hand and much to her dismay, pulls her unwillingly away from her friends. Then, the two squabble between each other as they exit the park and walk down the same sidewalk I stand on now.

A sudden and immense pang of intense emotion overtakes me and Anxiety returns once again, and this time I don't shake her off.

"Evelyn?"

***

5/12/2016 6:45 PM Brooklyn, New York.

Tapping my fingers eagerly against the leather-clad steering wheel of my black painted, government-issued Ford Taurus, I study the surrounding suburbs and stores tipped off to me by Spencer. Even from inside the car, the air is still freezing, causing my breath to create little clouds in the air. All is calm and silent, nothing out of the ordinary. Reaching the end of my journey through Spencer's list, agitation starts to take hold. That is, until the familiar sound of sirens can be heard whirring not too far away behind me, followed by the iconic red and blue flashing lights. A sense of excitement suddenly buzzes through me, causing me to bolt upright in my chair. Gripping the steering wheel, I make a sharp u-turn and drive in the general direction of the noise.

Zooming past Dan's Gin Mill and Tavern, the local high school and park, I drive into a nicely done up suburb, with multiple floor, brick apartments conjoined in a row that stretches all the way down the street. With trimmed bushes or trees swaying peacefully in the night breeze out of the front of each. Though, one apartment seems to be in distress. A crowd of people out the front stand in the background, hands to their mouths, whispering and gossiping as they onlook a small white family of three. A little girl wrapped in a fuzzy blue blanket sits on the sidewalk in disarray whilst her parents, a mother and father still dressed in their nightgowns, hug her in an attempt to provide comfort. There's no doubt about it, I've reached my destination. The big question is, could this perhaps be tied with Joshua Diaz? I ponder to myself as I pull up behind an empty police car. The lights still flickering blue and red.

'It would've been useful if one police officer stayed behind,' I complain to myself, rolling my eyes in annoyance before getting out of the car.

With a little fidget here and there to tidy up the state of my suit, I stroll up to the family. And as soon as they see me coming, it isn't long until they get on the defensive side.

"Hey!" the person I presume to be the father, looks up with a clearly agitated expression. "Back up. Our daughter's in shock. Leave my family alone, alright?" He asks, though it sounds more like a demand as he stands up in his grey tank top and black sweatpants.

Clearing my throat, I proceed to step closer and pull something out from one of my suit's pockets. "I'm terribly sorry to bother you and your family but my name is Samuel Cacy. I work for the New York Police Department and am a third grade detective in the Anti-Crime Unit." I explain, almost in a sing-song voice just to clear the air before they demand I "identify" myself, which for me, happens much too often than it should. Perhaps I should start finally admitting to myself that I have a drinking problem and maybe people wouldn't mistake me for being unprofessional? I grab hold of a smooth, leathery material and pull out my wallet, opening it to show a gleaming, shiny metallic gold and blue badge, styling the badge number 96143. "Could you maybe tell me where the officers that arrived at the scene, went to?"

The little girl's mother, wraps her white fluffy bathrobe around her tighter as a sudden gust of cold air blows through the street and stands up. "Uh, midway through questioning us, one of them spotted a man hiding in someone's front garden a couple houses up and he started fleeing on foot. They ran to try and catch him."

"Hmm, I see." I mutter, clearly not impressed. Usually, at least one should stay behind and report to me but no, of course not.

"Would you mind if I asked a couple of my own questions, ma'am?"

The middle-aged woman gives a meek nod but is soon interrupted by her husband. Meanwhile, throughout all of this ordeal, the little girl, I realise, has still remained completely silent and I give a look of pity as I glance down at her.

"Susan, no. We've already gone through this with the officers before. I'm not sure about Eliza honey, but I've surely had enough!" Annoyance drips off his every word as he occasionally squeezes his daughter's shoulders to warm her up.

She glances over her shoulder, "Be respectful, David. He's here to help," she berates him and turns her attention back to me. With a small sigh, she proceeds to explain what happened. "Well, we live on the first floor. David had just put Eliza to bed after a trip to the park and I don't think it was until around 7:33 PM where we heard the first banging noise? Someone was trying to forcefully smash their way into our apartment through one of the windows. With our bedroom being at the very opposite end of the apartment, we both rushed to her room and luckily we got there in time. Th-there was a hooded man trying drag Eliza out of her bedroom window. She was crying and screaming to be let go, but the man just didn't seem to care. As soon as David saw, he marched right into the room but the intruder punched him fair in the nose and he got away. At least, we thought he did for good. Though, the cops spotted him not too long ago. It was, it was just awful." By this point, the woman stands shivering as if someone's sent an icecube running down her spine and returns to her former spot besides her daughter on the sidewalk.

Not wanting to be intimidating, I squat down on the small stretch of grass in front of them. This has got to be him, I know it. Just looking at the little girl, I can tell the resemblance. But, why do such a thing? Never once has he been reported to have done this earlier. All I need now, is some evidence. Something to connect the dots.

"It's okay, answer in your own time. Would you have any idea what this man's motive was? Why he seemed to be doing this?"

"We'd have no clue!" David butts in. "He seemed nuts to me, incredibly disoriented. One thing I do know is that in his breath, you could clearly smell liquor. And what does it matter what his motive was? Probably to rape, kidnap, torture or kill my daughter! There are some real sickos in this world. Hope he gets caught," he rants in a muttering tone.

"I understand Mr?" I trail off, expecting his last name.

"Mr Moore."

"Mr Moore." I continue, "But you see, the man that my partner and I suspect has done this may actually be someone very dangerous and very sick. He's in dire need of help and we want to ensure that the public is safe by placing this man back where he belongs and where he can get treatment. It would be immensely helpful if you could tell me all you know, starting with his appearance?" I question in a calm manner, tilting my head to one side as I pull out a small, blank notebook Spencer uses for sketching and a lead pencil.

From then on, Mr Moore seems to be more relaxed and composed as he describes what he remembered the man to have looked like. With a forced, steady hand and intense concentration, I sketch out the suspect's face. I'm a decent sketcher, I'd have to say. However, when my work is compared to that of the likings of Spencer Collins', I'd be the underdog. Usually, Spencer would be the one doing this, not me but I can't bothered at the moment to call her up. Not when this poor family has gone through such a traumatic night and have had to repeat what they saw two times now. Once I am finally finished, I hold out my completed result before me. And of course. It is no other than the infamous Joshua Diaz. In fact, his clothing reminds me of a stranger I had a run in with at Dan's. He was the man that bumped into me. I curse myself. So close. Running my index finger along my bottom lip in thought, I ask one last question much to their relief.

"Mrs Moore, you mentioned that he shattered your daughter's bedroom window to get in. Would you mind showing me this?" I ask and she politely leads me through her apartment, down their main hallway and to Eliza's pink-splattered bedroom, on her wooden bedroom door, hangs a large lavender purple painted letter, E.

"Careful, there's glass everywhere," Susan prompts as I slowly creak open the door.

Straight away, my eyes land on a miraculous sight. Shards of glass lay scattered amongst the light brown carpeted floor. The pink curtains, flowing gracefully from the constant wind now blowing through the broken window. I had walked in on exactly what I desired, what I needed to prove this was the working of Joshua Diaz. His blood. His DNA. As Mr and Mrs Moore and their daughter stand patiently by the doorway in wait, I squat down to study one of the various shards. However, before this, I make sure to put gloves on prior to handling the evidence. I hold it up in front of me, letting it reflect in the moonlight. Dripping off one end, is a crimson red liquid.

"I've got you now, Diaz," I mumble to myself with a sigh.