He accepted them absently, his focus clearly on other things. “Look,” I began, and then stopped. I forced myself to switch to a more respectful salutation. “Excuse me, Officer, ah, Brady?” “Yes, miss?” It was a start. “Officer, I’m very concerned about this man. I believe he is stalking me.” His response was cut short by another officer who came by to ask him a question. The station was busy, but this was ridiculous. I stared intently at his head, willing him to pay attention to me. Eventually, he turned back. “Yes, miss?” “The stalker?” I said to jog his memory. “I have the papers you filled out right here, miss. I assure an officer will get right on it, the moment one is free. But I must tell you, miss, we’re very busy. Since a crime hasn’t been committed, I’m afraid I have to inform you your alleged stalker is low on our priority list.” “Can’t you at least run his plates? Make sure he isn’t a psycho? He drives a blue Jetta. It has a bike rack on it.
