Dream of: 18 September 1997 "Evidence"
I was walking down the street when I witnessed a scuffle take place. A middle-aged man (who looked exactly like Robert DeNiro) was the main person involved. He was finally subdued by the police. However the police hadn't seen something which I had seen: the man had dropped a gun. Without anyone seeing me, I bent over and picked up the gun. I knew the gun could be used as evidence against the man. For a moment I hesitated to turn the gun over to the police, either because I was afraid of the man, or simply because I didn't want to see him get into trouble. But finally I felt compelled to hand the gun over to the police.
An office of the FBI. Having learned more about the man who looked like DeNiro, I had come to the conclusion that he had been responsible for a vicious murder many years ago. Investigating the murder, still unsolved, I had uncovered some pieces of evidence which I thought were relevant and might help to convict the man. The most important piece of evidence was an old brown brittle newspaper which contained an article about the murder. The newspaper had to be handled carefully, but was still readable.
At the moment I was in a small room, where I also discovered two or three old diaries, apparently stored here by the FBI. I thought the diaries might also contain relevant information concerning the case. But when I opened them, I was disappointed to find nothing in them. Nevertheless, even without anything in the diaries, I still had four pieces of evidence.
A young FBI agent, a man (no more than 30 years old) walked in and looked over what I had. It seemed this was a place where young agents were trained. When he saw the evidence, he agreed with me that he would now have enough evidence to convict the man, whom we now both thought of as a dangerous murderer. The agent was impressed with my work, happy that he would be the agent responsible for handling the case. I also was happy with what I had done, pleased with the way I had assembled the evidence for the case.
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