Detective Victor Cruz was standing in his home, overlooking the smaller buildings of Boston. He noticed it was a cloudy and generally depressing day, and it appeared as if it was about to snow. You could feel it in the air. Detective Cruz, a 59-year-old man who was on the verge of retirement, had one more case to crack left in him.
The 5’6” gentleman called for his wife, by saying, “Sheila! Where are you?” There was no answer. Again he shouted, “Sheila!” He gave in and resided to sitting back down in his living room lounge chair. It was a white-colored recliner. He decided to lay back in it, and he fell asleep.
About an hour later, he heard a knock on his Beacon Street house’s front door. He looked to see who it was. He couldn’t see anyone through the peephole, so he opened the door. It was chilly out; he thought it was around 30 degrees, cold enough for snow. Before he was about to walk back inside, he heard a baby’s cry coming from in front of him. He looked down and saw a white baby, wrapped up in white blankets. He thought, dear God, not this again.
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