Bill blows through a heavy steel door at the foot of the stairs and walks away from the front entrance to where his source said a janitorial supply closet used to be. Bill is guessing that nobody’s used it since the building changed hands, and he’s right: when he forces the door, he exposes a dusty, mildewy, poorly-lit box full of half-empty bottles of industrial cleaners and a mop bucket with a broken wheel.

He steps inside and leaves the door open wide enough to see the front entrance. Roughly six minutes until Hell breaks loose outside. Meanwhile, he removes his gloves, sport coat, sweater and baggy pants. He removes the heavy black leather belt strapped awkwardly around his chest and buckles it around his waist, then smoothes the wrinkles from his navy-blue uniform. Before pushing his discarded clothes behind a stained cardboard box of bleach jugs, Bill removes the silver nametag and badge from a pocket in the jacket. Then he pins them to his chest, and hooks the radio on the belt to his left shoulder.