The state’s detective and the chief couldn’t afford to believe me; the protestors and keyboard warriors would eat them alive.
My shiftmates sent words of encouragement but stayed clear; I was a liability if things went wrong. I was all alone.
Then they found the note. It was a suicide, every movement and word an intentional trigger for deadly force. A troubled man looking for me to be his way out.
The state’s detective came to my house personally to give back my badge and gun, with an apology for taking even the short time he did.
The chief called to make sure I knew he was proud to have me on the job. The guys bought me a drink at the end of my first shift back.
All of them, even the Internet, seemed to agree: all I did was win the world’s worst lottery, and nothing I could have said or done would change the outcome one bit.
And I was all alone.