After yet another shitty day and enduring Randy’s ecstatic exclamations of “We’re pregnant!” for the entire lunch break—and the occasional text—I stopped by the precinct on Thursday evening to work with the artist for a couple of hours until we were satisfied the representation was as accurate as could be produced. The woman who did the composite thanked me for my time, and I headed out of the building, walking to the Subway that was still open and only a couple of blocks from my truck.
I ordered a tuna footlong, along with chips and a drink. The line was pretty short this time of day, and once it was ready, I walked to my dad’s old pickup, which I’d taken over driving when he couldn’t be trusted behind the wheel anymore.
Why did Simms—I never thought of him as Holland, for some reason—h
