Getting out, I pulled my old weatherproof canvas hat on at a low angle to ward off the weather and headed down the sidewalk. The fog and mist, if anything, was even heavier here in town. Except for the palms, live oaks, and Spanish moss, a visitor could be forgiven for thinking they were in London. But then again, the original settlers of the city had done their best to re-create another London town here in the subtropics. Within a few minutes I turned the corner, and there I was, 201 Broughton Street.

Entering the building, I immediately encountered the screening area. Automatically emptying my pockets under the watchful eye of an older police officer, I then passed through the metal detector. The officer monitoring the machine gave me a perfunctory nod of hello as I passed through. Scooping my change and keys from the small plastic basket and redistributing them in my pockets, I turned to the officer and said, “I always expect to hear buzzers and sirens go off.”

He laughed and replied, “Everybody does.”

I then asked, “Can you tell me where I can find the records section? I need to pick up a copy of a police report.”

Before he could answer a voice spoke up behind me, “Not here, buddy. Records section is on the other side of town.”

I turned to that familiar voice. It was Detective Patricia Latham. She flashed her badge to the officer on duty and walked around the screening kiosk to where I stood.

“Hello, Detective. I didn’t expect to see you here, but I’m glad I did,” I said.

Patricia looked to the officer standing nearby and gave him the hard eye. “Rayford, I hope you checked this man especially well. He’s a known troublemaker and not to be trusted under any conditions.”

“Nothing but the best, Detective. He got the full treatment,” he replied with a chuckle.

“Maybe so,” she said, “but just in case—Mr. Tanner, I think you better come with me.”

“If you insist, Detective,” I replied to her order.

“Oh, I do,” she responded.

Then turning slightly, and with a quick tilt of the head, she indicated the direction we were to go. I fell in step beside her as she paced away. With Patricia in the lead we made a couple of turns in the hallway and then arrived at a room divided into the standard office gopher cubicles. She made her way through the room with a “Hello, Dave” and a “Hi, Jim” here and there, until we came to her warren in the far corner of the room.

She hung her jacket on the back of a chair, and as she sat down she smiled and, pointing to the other chair in the booth, announced, “Sit.”

I did as she directed.

“So—what’s this business about a police report? You don’t have to go to such lengths just to see me,” she quipped.