The cop who looked ready to shoot was six inches taller than me and about the size of a Hummer, with mottled black skin, a thin mustache, and hair trimmed on the top of his head to look like a skullcap. His eyes gauged whether I was any kind of threat.

“Sir? We received a 911 call from this address.”

I did the only thing I could think to do. I lied.

“911? From here? I’m sorry, officer, it must be a mistake. I’m the only one here, and I didn’t call about any emergency.”

“Can you give me your name, sir?”

I hesitated, and the cop obviously noticed. “Dylan Moran.”

The two officers glanced at each other. “Well, sir, that’s the name we were given on the 911 call.”

“My name? I don’t know what to tell you. It must be someone playing some kind of trick. I’ve heard about that kind of thing—you know, where people send the police to somebody’s house. What do they call it? Swatting?”

“Do you have some kind of identification, sir?”

“Of course.”

I dug into my pocket and found my wallet. I pried my driver’s license out of the slot and gave it to the cop. I’m sure he saw that my hand was shaking. When he handed it back to me, I needed a couple of tries to get the license back into my wallet.

“We’d like to take a look inside your apartment, Mr. Moran.”

“I understand, Officer. I know you’re just doing your job. But I don’t know anything about a 911 call, and I’m afraid I’m not prepared to let the police search my home for no reason. I’m sorry.”

I could see him looking over my shoulder through the open door, no doubt hunting for some kind of probable cause that would give them an excuse to come inside without my permission. Then he glanced at the stairs leading to the second floor.

“Is there another apartment upstairs?”

“Yes. My grandfather lives there. Edgar Moran.”

“We’d like to talk to him,” the cop said.

“Well, he’s ninety-four, Officer, and not in good health, so I’d really prefer if you didn’t bother him. As I say, this whole thing has to be some kind of weird joke.”

“A joke,” the cop said, chewing on the word like gum.

“That’s right.”

“The 911 caller said his name was Dylan Moran, and he was ready to confess to murder. That doesn’t sound like a joke.”

I didn’t have any trouble summoning anger to my face, because I was angry. Angry and desperate and losing my grip on the world I was in. “Well, that’s crazy, Officer. I’m not a killer. Obviously, I would never call the police and say anything like that.”