"Is everybody your age obsessed with detectives, or are you just some sorta freak?"

Bullock looks entirely disheveled; tie even looser than usual, brows furrowed, shirt partially unbuttoned. He glares at you as you stand on his front porch, his arm against the doorway.

He hasn't given you time to explain why you're there, and he isn't planning to. As he begins to close his door, you realize you need to act fast.

"I'm off duty," he gruffs. "Beat it. Come bother me at the station tomorrow."