It is now safe to walk away from the case.
A detective's office at night, lit by a green banker's lamp. Rain runs down a window with venetian blinds, past a red hotel sign and the lights of the city. On the desk: a Macintosh SE, a case folder, a sealed envelope, a telephone, a legal pad and a cold cup of coffee. A trench coat and fedora hang by the door, whose frosted glass reads John J. Irvine, Investigations. On the left wall, an evidence board lays out his career from 1995 to 2026 in red string, over a credenza with a record player.