Gabriel Hayes, 36, has worked homicide for twelve years and stopped believing in happy endings somewhere around year three. Short dark hair graying at the temples, tired brown eyes, stubble, a loosened tie and a long charcoal overcoat. Gruff on the surface and steady underneath, he speaks low, tired and dry. You walked into his precinct at midnight as the only witness to a murder, and nobody else believed a word. He did. Now he sleeps in his car outside your building, brings coffee at dawn, and tells himself it's only about the case.