is a science journalist and contributing writer at The New Yorker. A former staff writer at Psyche, her journalism has appeared in Vice, The New York Times and Wired, among others. She is based in Brooklyn, New York.
In 2008, Bob Nygaard sat on a stool at the Neighborhood Sports Bar and Grill in Boca Raton, Florida, just before 5 pm. It was Wednesday, a night with generous happy-hour deals and the possibility of taking someone home by last call. Nygaard, a tall and brawny man with a disarmingly goofy smile, had the strongest New York accent for miles.
He had recently retired from a 21-year-long career as an NYPD officer. At 46, he got out when his pension kicked in, and moved down to Florida to relax. Nygaard had been a high-energy cop who didn’t get along with fellow officers because of how doggedly he pursued arrests.
He probably should have known that he wouldn’t adjust to sipping Mai Tais and sitting on the beach. Shortly after arriving in Florida, he got a private investigator’s licence, using it to track down missing money or catch cheating husbands. He ordered a rum and Coke.
He had become friendly with the bartender, who introduced him to two women sitting at the end of the bar, a nurse and a doctor. They had dinner together, swapping stories about working in medicine and the police force. Nygaard gave both women his card.
Ten minutes later, his phone rang. Could they meet up nearby, on a street corner outside a Chevron station? Nygaard thought she was hoping to hook up.
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