Detective Miller pulls into a short driveway belonging to a two-story bungalow that must be eighty years old. With its front porch, solid wood door, and big brick fireplace, the home is not all that different from the one he grew up in on Albany’s west side. He grabs the map off the cruiser’s passenger side seat and proceeds up the drive, hoping that the occupant is home.
Maybe I should have called first, he says to himself. But then why give them a chance to deny me a much-needed conversation?
Maybe I should have called first,But then why give them a chance to deny me a much-needed conversation?Crossing over the stone pathway, he climbs the steps to the porch, approaches the wood door, and knocks three times. Waits. When he makes out footsteps, he knows the occupant is indeed home.
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