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The air in Morrison Park was thick with the smell of damp earth and diesel exhaust, but for six days, I had known only the scent of the grime on my own skin. To the world, I was just another shadow on a bench, a nameless man wrapped in a threadbare blanket that smelled of woodsmoke and neglect. I was invisible. That was the point of the assignment. To most, I was a nuisance to be ignored; to Officer Walsh, I was a target.
Walsh didn’t move at first when I spoke. The words seemed to hover in the cold morning air, refusing to settle. His grip on my collar tightened, his knuckles white against the dark leather of his gloves. He leaned in so close I could see the broken capillaries in his eyes and the flickers of a man who believed his badge was a shield against any consequence. He asked what I had said, his voice dropping to a dangerous, controlled low. It wasn’t the sound of a man seeking clarity; it was the sound of a predator wondering if the prey had finally grown teeth.
I coughed, a calculated move to buy a second of composure. Hidden within the coarse weave of my blanket, a pinhole camera remained steady, tracking every micro-expression on his face. I repeated the words, forcing my voice to remain level and devoid of the fear he expected. I told him that Internal Affairs had been watching him. The shift in the atmosphere was instantaneous. Behind him, Officer Carter finally looked up from the pavement, his face pale. Officer Lopez froze mid-step. The certainty that usually radiated from Walsh like a physical heat began to crack.