The temperature probably topped triple digits inside that metal sardine can, but out here it’s balmy and delightful. Folks are walking around in shorts and T-shirts. The palm trees lining Canal Street are gently swaying from the slight breeze. Anytime is a perfect time to visit New Orleans, if you ask me, but February can’t be beat, especially if you’re from some frozen place like Maine or Minnesota.

I start walking north away from my truck and ex-wife. After a few steps, I hear a metallic screeching and clattering coming up behind me. Turning back, I see a distinctive red and yellow vintage streetcar slowing down as it nears its next stop. If I broke into a jog, I could probably catch it. I’m going in that direction anyway. But I decide not to. I’m in no rush. Besides, I want to use the mile-and-a-half walk to do some thinking.

And ponder that visit from the Franklin Avenue Soldiers.

So I keep strolling, taking in all the sights and sounds. Preparations are well under way for Carnival, the two wild weeks leading up to Mardi Gras, the single greatest party on the entire planet—at least in my totally biased opinion.

It kicks off tonight and you can feel it in the air, see it everywhere you look. Shopkeepers have started hanging up purple, green, and gold streamers, flags, and other decorations in their windows. Eager, excited tourists have already begun trickling in. And at various key intersections around the city, the NOPD has started placing Delta barriers—big, white, mechanical traffic barricades that keep cars off designated parade routes and pedestrian paths. Things can get pretty crazy when the festivities are in full swing, but law, order, and safety are always top priorities.

Right now, I’m thinking about my own safety.

In more ways than one.

As I keep moving, scanning the streets for any lurking Franklin Avenue boys, I mentally rehearse how this whole thing is going to play out in just a short while.

I know what I saw. I know I did the right thing. And I know what I want to say.

So why do I still feel like I’m walking the plank?

Soon I’m hooking a left onto South Broad Avenue. I keep going until I cross Tulane—the thoroughfare, not the university. Up ahead is the Orleans Parish criminal court, one of the ugliest buildings in this otherwise beautiful city, a hideous concrete fortress surrounded by barbed-wire fences.

After I cross Gravier Street, my destination comes into view. Set back from the road by a wide courtyard, it’s a place I’ve spent hundreds of hours of my life and been a part of some extraordinary investigations. But today, the New Orleans Police Department headquarters feels different. Strange. Foreboding. Uninviting.

I consider whether to enter through one of its side doors, or maybe via the staff parking garage. Both would avoid a possible scene.