Through the windshield, he spotted her. A small, older woman in a faded coat and scarf, carrying a black trash bag. She was walking slowly, pausing every few steps to look around.
To a neighbor, she was Miss Evelyn, getting her bearings as her early-stage dementia momentarily clouded her path. To Mercer, trained to look for suspicious behavior in an area plagued by recent illegal dumping complaints, she looked hesitant. Guilty. Out of place.
He put the cruiser in park, unbuckled his seatbelt, and stepped out into the afternoon air. The heavy thud of his boots on the pavement seemed to echo.
"Ma'am," Mercer called out, his voice sharp and authoritative. "Hey, stop right there."
Evelyn froze. The sudden, loud command shattered the fragile focus she had maintained on her task. She turned slowly, her eyes narrowing as she tried to process the sight of the uniform, the badge, the posture of a man demanding her attention.
"Yes?" she managed, though it sounded more like a question than a response.
Mercer closed the distance between them, pointing a gloved finger at the bag in her hands. "What’s in that?"
Evelyn looked down at the black plastic, then back up at the officer. Her mind felt like a radio dial slipping between stations, catching only static. "Trash," she answered, the word soft and slightly slurred.
Mercer’s frown deepened. He didn't hear confusion; he heard evasion. "This isn't a dumping area," he stated flatly.
Evelyn blinked, trying to force her brain to supply the right words. She took a tentative step forward, wanting only to finish her chore and return to the safety of her apartment. "I live here," she said, but the sentence trailed off, lacking the firm conviction it needed.
"Do not move," Mercer ordered, stepping directly into her path.
Evelyn’s heart began to hammer against her ribs like a trapped bird. Her grip on the trash bag tightened until her knuckles turned white. "I'm just... I always..." The words wouldn't come. The sticky notes in her apartment couldn't help her now.