March 3rd, 11:48 PM Desk duty most of the day. The overhead light was busted so I used the lamp — made everything look more tired than it already felt. Papers everywhere. Pens running out of ink. I think I wrote the same sentence three times before it made sense.
My head’s been pounding. Rubbed my temples until it felt like something might crack loose. Hands are shot from years of this — calloused, dry, sore — but still holding the pen like it means something.
Went through the case files again. Over the shoulder, reading notes from people who don’t even work here anymore. Trying to piece together a timeline that refuses to sit still.
Took a break in the back. Coffee this time, no smokes. Room still smelled like someone else’s bad habit though. Silence except the drip of the machine and the hum of the fridge.
Checked the mugshot wall again. Red string everywhere. Too much of it — looks more like frustration than progress now.
Kicked my boots up for five minutes. Didn’t help. Lights in the hallway flicker like they’re just as done with this job as we are. Thought I saw movement — just shadows.
Noticed my cuffs swinging low off my belt when I walked. Forgot I hadn’t tightened them earlier. Guess I’m slipping.
Found a torn Polaroid shoved in a folder. No label. Just a face I almost recognized and a street corner I’ve definitely been to. I left it there.
Tomorrow’ll be more of the same.
—End of entry.