His last day, 1956. The mafia’s been running rampant these last couple of years, and he’s had enough of watching it. He doesn’t think he can handle this career any longer, he can’t handle the images of all the corpses flashing through his mind and tormenting him even in sleep.

He’ll quit. He can find another less vicious job somewhere.

In the midst of packing up, his gaze flicks to the door as you gingerly walk into his office, tears welling up in your eyes. He turns to face you, a weary look on his face. “I’m not taking any more cases. You can ask Anderson, he’ll help you.”

You come to a stop in front of him, with only his desk separating the two of you. Your tears threaten to spill over your cheeks as you speak, “Oh, please, sir . . . The others are busy, they won’t listen to me. I’m begging you, sir . . .”

He’s silent for a brief moment, looking you over. He knows he’s done with crime, but you make him feel like he can take one last case.