Malik shrugged. “Feels like we’re always watching, always being watched.”

Jordan looked at him. “Maybe. But maybe that’s okay. Because now the community is watching with us. Not against us.”

Avondale, Cincinnati, Ohio  — 2035

The call came through the Community Pulse Grid at 7:16 a.m.

It wasn’t a 911 call—no one had dialed anything. Instead, sensors embedded in the streetlights near Reading Road detected unusual vocal patterns and erratic movement just outside Gabriel’s Place, the neighborhood garden and community center. AI analytics flagged a possible mental health episode. Within seconds, a soft alert pinged Officer Jordan Reyes’ META glasses.

He blinked twice to activate the interface. A real-time projection overlaid on his field of vision showed a 3D rendering of the area, heat signatures pulsing in amber. One lone figure stood in the garden, arms flailing, voice cracking in distress.

Dispatch had already greenlit the call. Jordan’s autonomous patrol cruiser veered off Burnet Avenue and cut silently through Rockdale. By the time he reached the scene, the figure’s name and history had loaded into his HUD: Marcus Delvin, 38. Diagnosed bipolar. Former Army mechanic. Multiple prior mental health crises. No history of violence.

Jordan stepped out, his boots sinking slightly into the damp spring soil. He didn’t unclip his less-lethal plasma baton or gesture toward the drone unit hovering overhead. Instead, he touched the rim of his META glasses.

"Marcus,” he said, voice calm. “I’m Officer Reyes. I’m here to help you."

A split-second lag translated his voice into Marcus’ preferred sensory setting—soothing visual text scrolling on a projection from a small drone at Marcus’s side. The department’s new neurodivergent-accessible interface—a simple technology, but revolutionary.

Marcus turned, eyes wide, breath labored. “They’re watching me again.”

“I believe you,” Jordan replied, stepping into full view. “Let’s walk a little. Away from the lights.”

This — this — was the difference. The tech wasn’t there to distance him. It brought him closer. Five years ago, this would have ended in shouting, handcuffs, or worse. Today, his body language, his vocal tone, and even his facial expressions were all being analyzed in real time and relayed to his Command Support Specialist at the Avondale Integrated Response Center.

Back at the center, embedded inside the old Lincoln Recreation Center, Command Specialist Alana Griffin watched the interaction through Jordan’s live feed. Beside her, Officer Malik Johnson—the oldest patrolman in the district — crossed his arms.

“This what we’re doing now?” Malik grunted. “Playing therapist with hover-cams and smart glasses?”

Alana didn’t look up. “We’re seeing Marcus. That’s what we’re doing. And this tech lets us do it without scaring the hell out of him.”

Malik shook his head. “Doesn’t feel like police work anymore.”

“It is,” Alana said softly. “It’s just better now.”

Back at the garden, Marcus had stopped pacing. Jordan’s GPS-linked watch buzzed gently—an alert from the neighborhood behavioral health team. A licensed responder was enroute and would arrive in under four minutes. Jordan guided Marcus to a bench under the mural of Harriet Tubman painted across the rec center wall.

“I’m not crazy,” Marcus whispered. “People think I’m crazy.”

“I don’t think that,” Jordan replied. “You just need some help today. I’ve needed help, too.”

Marcus exhaled, shaky but grounding. “You’re not like the others.”

Jordan nodded. “Because the department changed. We changed to see you better.”

After the incident, the cruiser drove itself quietly down Forest Avenue. Jordan dictated his report verbally. The system automatically linked the footage, behavioral flags, biometric data, and officer notes into a justice-integrated case file, shared securely with Marcus’s care team at the VA hospital off Vine Street.

The report would be reviewed by the city’s Legal-Tech Compliance Unit to ensure privacy, proportionality, and civil rights adherence. Every use of surveillance, every scan, every drone deployment—audited.

No secrets. No gray zones.

At roll call that night, Malik stood by the coffee dispenser.

“You really think all that tech makes a difference?” he asked Jordan.

Jordan took a sip from his canteen. “Marcus is alive, stable, and enrolled in care now. Last time someone called about him, it took four of us to get him into an ambulance. He fought us the whole way.”

Malik shrugged. “Feels like we’re always watching, always being watched.”

Jordan looked at him. “Maybe. But maybe that’s okay. Because now the community is watching with us. Not against us.”

Reflective Questions

  1. How did the technologies used by Officer Reyes (e.g., META glasses, real-time translation, drones) enhance his ability to build trust and de-escalate the situation? What are the potential risks and rewards of relying on these technologies in high-stakes encounters involving vulnerable individuals?

  2. Officer Malik’s skepticism about the new tools and approaches reflects a common generational divide in policing. What steps can agencies take to support veteran officers as the profession evolves, and how can leaders ensure cultural buy-in for innovation?

  3. The story highlights real-time legal and ethical oversight through automated auditing of surveillance and officer actions. What are the benefits and challenges of integrating legal compliance systems into everyday police operations, and how might they impact officer discretion and community trust?

  4. The story presents a vision of police as “trusted problem-solvers” who are trained and expected to address a wide range of harms, including those involving mental health. Should this be a central role for policing in the future? Why or why not? What support structures must be in place for officers to carry it out effectively and ethically?

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“The Man Who Wasn’t There”

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A Murder of Witnesses