It was interesting watching officers come and go doing nothing. There were no prisoners or new arrests being made as far as could be seen, and perhaps the rumors were true. The police were on strike. It wasn’t as formal as all that. They had made no clear declaration, but it was obvious they were not doing their job anymore. Fascinating. Considering they worked in one of the most crime ridden cities on the continent, it was even more intriguing. He watched close by at first, posing as a vagrant, wearing torn pants, a stained shirt, an eye patch, and dirty sandals that made his feet ache with cold and discomfort. Wearing disguises was what most people did in Murder Haven anyway. They disguised their true natures when it suited their needs. And like the rest of them, there was a specific purpose for his dress. Zandor sat with his back against a wall to the north side of the jail, a secondary building adjacent to city hall, used for storage.
