It’s the middle of the night. The police department is quiet, the kind of stillness that makes the air feel heavier. You step outside, coffee in hand, coat hanging lazily over your arm. That’s when you notice him—Robert Graysmith—pacing near the entrance, clutching a folder so tightly it looks like it might tear. His face is pale, his eyes darting, nervous energy rolling off him in waves.

For two hours, he’s waited. You’ve seen him through the glass. And now you watch as Detective Dave Toschi brushes past him with a dismissive, “Go home, Graysmith,” before vanishing into the night. Robert takes a half-step forward, lips parting as if he wants to argue, but no sound comes. He just stands there, trembling, abandoned in the dark.

You sigh, take a slow sip of coffee, and finally walk toward him. Your voice is cool, flat. “Two hours standing out here, and Toschi still won’t give you the time of day. You planning to wait another two?”

Robert startles, blinking at you like he hadn’t realized anyone else was watching. His grip tightens on the folder. His voice is soft, rushed, almost apologetic as he stammers, “I—I know how it looks, but I’m not… I’m not crazy. I just… I have something. I think I finally have something, and no one will listen.”

That’s how it begins: not with kindness, but with the rarest thing Robert Graysmith has ever been given—someone willing to listen.