In March, even at nine o'clock, the sky over New York was still gray and gloomy, like a rag that had been used for too long and could neither be wrung dry nor hung out to dry.
Lin An stood in front of the 103rd Precinct in a thin black sweatshirt with no brand name, looking up at the building.
The 103rd Precinct stood at the intersection of Jamaica Avenue and Parsons Avenue. It was a four-story building with an off-white stone base, red-brick walls, and an antenna and flagpole jutting up from the roof. A busy city street ran in front of it. Two patrol cars were parked in the lot, their hoods covered with a layer of dust.
There were three steps at the entrance. The middle one had a crack filled with asphalt, and the patch job was sloppy enough to make it feel sticky underfoot.
He walked up and pushed the door open.
The door was heavy, and its hinges were a little rusty. It let out a low groan as he pushed it open.
The lobby was small, with a front desk and a few plastic chairs. A handful of wanted posters and a community safety notice hung on the walls. A water cooler stood in the corner, with a note taped to it that read "Out of water."
The officer on duty sat behind the front desk. He was a white man in his forties with heavy bags under his eyes, looking like some poor soul who had just finished a night shift and was about to start a day shift.
He was eating a doughnut, his fingers dusted with sugar. When he saw Lin An come in, he paused, put the doughnut down, and wiped his fingers on his pants.
"Good morning, sir."
The officer spoke in a neutral tone.
"What can I help you with?"
Lin An walked up to the desk and spoke at an even pace, politely wearing an entirely harmless façade.
"Good morning, officer. I have an appointment with Officer Patrick."
The officer's fingers paused over the keyboard.
"Patrick?"
He looked up at Lin An, studying his face for two seconds before giving him the once-over... A black sweatshirt that looked expensive, dark gray cargo pants, clean white sneakers. Around twenty years old, Asian, with a mild expression. He didn't look like he was there to report a crime or cause trouble.
"What's your name?"
"Lin An."
The officer typed a few words, and a line of information appeared on the screen. He glanced at it, his brow shifting slightly, then picked up the phone on his desk and dialed three digits.
"Hey, Patrick, your appointment's here... Yeah, Chinese, around twenty... Okay."
He hung up and nodded to Lin An.
"Just a moment. He'll be right down."
"Thank you."
Lin An said, then moved a couple of steps to the side, out of the way, and waited quietly.
The lobby was very quiet.
The water cooler hummed, the radiator made a faint clicking sound, and an old television in the corner was showing the morning news... a piece about the economic stimulus plan, which was everywhere in 2009.
Footsteps sounded on the stairs.
Patrick and O'Brien hurried down.
O'Brien wore a complicated expression, both grateful and embarrassed. Patrick got ahead of him, strode over, and grabbed Lin An's hand.
"Dr. Lin An, thank you for coming."
"Good morning, Officer Patrick."
"Just call me Patrick."
Patrick let go and turned sideways to glance at O'Brien.
"O'Brien told me yesterday about you helping him with his taxes. I don't even know how to thank you."
"You're welcome. Mr. O'Brien is a good person. Good people deserve good things."
O'Brien stood nearby. Hearing that, he opened his mouth, then closed it again.
"Let's go to the conference room."
Patrick said, gesturing for him to go ahead.
"It's not convenient to talk here."
The conference room was on the second floor. It was small, with a long table, six chairs, and a whiteboard on the wall covered in writing that no one had erased yet. Light came through the blinds, casting stripes of shadow and sunlight across the tabletop.
Patrick closed the door. O'Brien pulled out a chair and sat down, while Lin An sat across from him and set his backpack by his feet.
"Would you like something to drink?"
Patrick asked.
"Coffee? Water?"
"No, thank you."
Lin An said, taking a handwritten note from his backpack and turning to a blank page. Then he took out a pen.
"Let's get started."
Patrick pulled a stack of documents from his briefcase. It was thinner than O'Brien's stack from the day before, but there was still quite a bit.
"I don't know where to start."
He said.
"Take a seat first."
Lin An said.
Patrick pulled out a chair and sat down, placing both hands on the table and interlacing his fingers.
"I filed my 2008 taxes myself, but last month I got a notice from the IRS saying I'd underreported some income. They wanted me to pay the tax and a penalty, a little over five hundred dollars in total."
"A little over five hundred?"
"Five hundred and thirty-seven."
Patrick looked troubled as he said the amount.
"I've already paid it."
"You've already paid it?"
"I have."
Patrick said.
"I couldn't fight the IRS. Whatever they said, they said. Five hundred bucks isn't that much."
O'Brien snorted beside him.
"That's not what you told me. You said those five hundred dollars would cover a week's worth of groceries for your wife."
Patrick glared at him.
O'Brien shrugged and fell silent.
Lin An took Patrick's documents and spread them out on the table.
Another CP2000. The IRS is sending out scare letters in bulk.
Eighteen hundred in interest? What kind of bank pays that much interest? Weren't rates cut to almost nothing in 2008?
Wait, no. After the 2008 financial crisis, rates had already fallen close to zero. Where would eighteen hundred dollars in interest come from? How much money would he need to have saved to earn eighteen hundred in interest?
At four percent, he'd need forty-five thousand.
A forty-five-thousand-dollar certificate of deposit, for a cop? In 2008?
Either something else was misreported as interest, or...
Let me look at the details of that letter.
Lin An turned the letter to the second page. It described the income as "JPMorgan Chase Form 1099-INT, interest income of $1,843.62."
"Officer Patrick, do you have a certificate of deposit with JPMorgan Chase?"
Patrick froze for a moment.
"No."
"Do you have a large amount of money in any other bank?"
"No."
Patrick shook his head.
"My wife and I have less than ten thousand dollars in savings combined. It's all in checking accounts. The interest over a year... a few dozen dollars? I can't even remember."
Then where did this 1099-INT come from?
JPMorgan Chase wouldn't issue a 1099-INT for no reason. Some account must have earned interest.
The officer says he has less than ten thousand in savings. Checking account rates in 2008 were probably below 0.5 percent. He'd earn at most fifty dollars in a year, not eighteen hundred.
No need to overthink it. Someone must have used his SSN to open an account. This happened to me when I was studying in the United States.
One question: what's an SSN?
An SSN is a unique nine-digit identification number issued by the Social Security Administration. It's similar to an ID number, but not quite the same. It's central to filing taxes in the United States; all income is tied to an SSN, and the IRS uses it to verify a person's tax information.
Check the officer's Form 1040 and see how much interest income he reported.
Lin An searched through the documents and found Patrick's 2008 Form 1040. He turned to the line for "Interest income," which read "$42.17."
Forty-two dollars. That's normal.
It's obvious he's been targeted. The biggest problem now is that he already paid the penalty. Getting that money back won't be easy.
Get it back? Once money goes to the IRS, you think you can get it back? You're too naïve.
You can get it back, but you have to fill out a pile of forms, wait more than six months, and it still might not work.
Streamer, ask him if anyone used his identity to open an account in 2008. His wife, maybe? Or his parents? Rule out one possibility first.
Lin An put down the documents and looked at Patrick.
"Officer Patrick, are you sure no one used your Social Security Number to open an account with JPMorgan Chase in 2008? Is it possible your wife opened one without telling you?"
Patrick frowned.
"My wife... I don't think so. She's more careful with money than I am, but she wouldn't open an account without telling me."
He thought for a moment, then pulled out his phone.
"I'll call and ask her."
He stood up, walked to the window, and turned his back to Lin An and O'Brien. He dialed a number. The phone rang a few times before someone answered.
"Hey, it's me... I wanted to ask you something. Did you open an account with JPMorgan Chase?... No, I'm just asking... You didn't? Are you sure?... What about in 2008?... You didn't then, either?... Okay, got it... It's nothing. I'll tell you in a bit."
He hung up and turned around.
"My wife says she never opened any accounts with JPMorgan Chase. She banks with TD Bank."
Confirmed. It's identity theft.
Identity theft was already common in 2008. When I worked at a bank in the United States, I saw this happen all the time. Someone would use another person's SSN to open an account, deposit money, and then withdraw it. The bank records would show the victim's name.
But the IRS would count the interest earned on that money as the victim's income.
Right. Victims didn't realize their identities had been stolen until they received a 1099-INT.
If it's identity theft, this is a hassle. It can't be fixed by simply filling out a form.
First, he has to file a police report and get a copy. Then he needs to contact the bank and prove the account isn't his. After that, he has to get the bank to send a corrected 1099-INT to the IRS.
Lin An stacked the documents neatly again, set them aside, and looked at Patrick.
"Officer Patrick, I have a good idea what might have gone wrong, but I need you to answer a question first."
"Go ahead."
"Before 2008, did you ever lose your wallet or your Social Security Card?"
Patrick thought for a moment, then his expression changed.
"In 2007... I lost my wallet at a shopping mall in Queens. It had my driver's license, Social Security Card, and a credit card in it."
"Did you report it?"
"I did. The mall security guards made a record, and I filed a report at the precinct, too. Someone charged more than two hundred dollars to the credit card. The bank refunded me later, and I applied for a replacement Social Security Card."
Lin An leaned back in his chair and folded his hands on the table.
"Officer Patrick, I suspect someone stole your Social Security Number and used your identity to open an account with JPMorgan Chase. The eighteen hundred dollars in interest came from that account."
Patrick's mouth opened, then closed.
He stared at Lin An for a few seconds, then turned to O'Brien.
"Then... I've already paid the penalty."
Patrick's voice was a little hoarse.
"I've already paid over five hundred dollars."
He can still get it back, but it'll take time.
The first step... Going through all five steps will take at least six months, but he can definitely get it back.
Lin An looked at Patrick, his tone gentle.
"Officer Patrick, this will be a little complicated to sort out, but it can be fixed. You'll need to do a few things..."
"I know it's complicated."
Patrick interrupted him, his voice rising just a little before he quickly lowered it again.
"I... I know it's a hassle. I paid the penalty because I didn't want to deal with all that."
He paused.
"It was a little over five hundred dollars. I thought if I paid it, I wouldn't have to go through all this."
Typical American thinking: pay up and make it go away.
The problem is that paying doesn't make it go away. The IRS will think you admitted the income was yours. If something similar happens again, they'll come after you again.
And identity theft doesn't just disappear on its own. If that account is still open, another 1099-INT will show up next year, the year after, and every year after that.
Right. If he doesn't deal with it, the problem will keep coming back every year. Over five hundred dollars a year adds up to more than five thousand over ten years.
So he has to deal with it, no matter how much of a hassle it is.
Lin An explained all this to Patrick simply and directly, without jargon or beating around the bush.
Patrick listened, then fell silent for a long time.
He looked down at the pile of documents on the table, tapped his fingers against it twice, then raised his head.
"Then... could you help me?"
"Sure."
Lin An said.
"But I need you to cooperate with a few things."
"Go ahead."
"First, can you check the system today and see what address was used to open that JPMorgan Chase account? If the person who stole your identity left an address, this will be a lot easier."
Patrick thought it over, then nodded.
"I can check the system, but not as a police officer. I'll check with the bank in my personal capacity."
"Second,"
Lin An said.
"You need to file another police report, specifically for identity theft. This time, the report needs to state clearly that someone used your Social Security Number to open a bank account."
"That's doable."
Patrick said.
"I can file it at the precinct."
"Third,"
Lin An said.
"You need to be prepared. This won't be resolved quickly. It could take a few months."
Patrick drew a deep breath, then slowly let it out.
"A few months, then. That's still better than having the IRS chase me every year."
He stood up, walked over to the whiteboard, picked up a marker, and wrote down several things.
1. Check account with JPMorgan Chase
2. Report identity theft
3. Contact the IRS to correct the 1099-INT
4. File 1040X
5. Apply for a tax refund
When he finished, he stepped back and looked at the list. Then he capped the marker with a click.
"That's what we'll do,"
he said.
O'Brien had barely said a word. Now he suddenly spoke up.
"Patrick, didn't you just say you were going to buy Dr. Lin An lunch?"
Patrick froze for a moment, then slapped his forehead.
"Right, right! Dr. Lin An, lunch is on me. There's a nice place nearby..."
Before he could finish, someone knocked on the conference room door, then pushed it open.
A man in his fifties walked in, wearing a crisply pressed police uniform with gold insignia on his shoulders. His hair was gray, and he had more wrinkles than his age might suggest, but his eyes were bright. He swept his gaze around the room before settling it on Lin An.
Inspector Morales.
He was holding a folder. He seemed to have just been passing by, but Lin An noticed it was empty; there was nothing inside.
"Patrick."
Morales's voice wasn't loud, but it had a quality that made people instinctively sit up straighter.
"You made an appointment with a guest. Why didn't you tell me?"
"Sir."
Patrick stood up.
"This is Dr. Lin An, the one I told you about—the doctoral student at Columbia University who O'Brien knows."
Morales looked at Lin An for two seconds.
Then he broke into a radiant smile.
"Dr. Lin An."
He hurried over and held out his hand.
"I'm Inspector Morales, Frank Morales."
Lin An stood and shook his hand.
"Hello, Inspector Morales."
Morales's handshake was firm, but not excessive.
"O'Brien told me you helped him out a lot."
"It wasn't much,"
Lin An said.
"I just took a look at his tax forms."
"Tax forms."
Morales repeated the words with a smile.
"You know, at the 103rd Precinct, fewer people can understand tax forms than can understand a crime scene."
He released Lin An's hand, glanced at the list Patrick had written on the whiteboard, then turned back to Lin An.
"Can you solve Patrick's tax problem, too?"
"I can,"
Lin An said.
"It'll take some time, but it can be solved."
Morales nodded and didn't ask anything further.
He lifted the folder in his hand and tapped it lightly against the table twice.
"Dr. Lin An, I heard you lost your passport and visa?"
Lin An's expression didn't change. He wore the same polite smile.
"Yes, Inspector. My belongings were stolen. My passport, visa, and student ID were all inside."
"Did you report it?"
"Not yet. I came here today to file a report."
Morales glanced at Patrick, who gave a slight nod.
Then he looked at O'Brien, who nodded slightly as well.
Morales set down the folder and put his hands in his pockets. He stood there thinking for a few seconds.
"There's a process for filing a report: you wait in line, give a statement, then wait for the report. It's not too busy today, but it'll still take two or three hours to get through everything, and the results won't be ready for five days."
He paused.
"But I can help speed things up."
[Here we go, here we go. This is how a society built on personal connections works.] [It's the same in the United States. Things move at two different speeds depending on whether you have connections.] [It's common in the United States for someone inside a police department to help "expedite the process." It's not illegal, just internal coordination. Like political donations, it's not corruption; it's normal election...233.] [The real question is, why is Inspector Morales helping Lin An?] [Because the streamer is valuable.]
Lin An bowed slightly.
"Thank you, Inspector Morales."
"Just call me Morales."
The inspector waved a hand.
"Come with me."
Morales led Lin An out of the conference room, down the hallway, and past several offices. At last, he stopped in front of a door.
A sheet of paper was posted on it, reading, "Records—Please Knock Before Entering."
Morales didn't knock. He pushed the door open and went straight in.
The room was small, with three desks, two computers, and a filing cabinet. Forms and notices covered the walls, and the air smelled of printer paper and toner.
A young policewoman was typing at a computer. When she saw Morales come in, she immediately stood.
"Sir."
"Jenny,"
Morales said.
"This gentleman needs to report a theft. His passport and visa are missing. Please issue him a police report card."
Jenny glanced at Lin An, then at Morales, and nodded.
"Of course, sir."
She sat back down and placed her fingers on the keyboard.
"Name?"
"Lin An. L-I-N, A-N."
"Date of birth?"
"March 2, 1988."
"Social Security Number?"
Lin An's expression didn't change.
"I don't have a Social Security Number. I'm an international student on an F-1 visa, and I only arrived in the United States recently."
Jenny's fingers paused on the keyboard. She looked up at Morales.
Morales stood beside her with his arms crossed, his expression calm.
"Use his passport number, then,"
he said.
Jenny nodded and typed a few keys.
"Passport number?"
Lin An took a slip of paper from his pocket. He had written it down last night, along with a visa number and an I-94 number.
He had learned these numbers from the Bullet Screen in his livestream.
The viewers had told him that F-1 visas from 2009 had passport numbers starting with an E followed by eight digits; I-94 numbers were eleven digits with no letters, and visa numbers were eight digits, printed in red on the visa page.
He handed the slip to Jenny.
She glanced at it, then began entering the information into the system.
"Address?"
"I'm staying with a friend for now. Apartment 2B, 90-41 108th Street, Jamaica."
Jenny typed a few keys, then paused.
"Mr. Lin,"
she said.
"I can't find your visa information in the system."
The room fell silent for a second.
Morales came over and stood behind Jenny, looking down at the screen.
The screen displayed the Department of Homeland Security's Student and Exchange Visitor Information System. Morales logged in using his police department credentials, then entered the passport and visa numbers Lin An had provided.
The system displayed, "No record found."
[Is he about to get caught?] [No, the Student and Exchange Visitor Information System was already around in 2009. All international students' information is in there. If it can't find him, it means there's no record of his visa.] [The streamer's finished.] [It's fine. The Student and Exchange Visitor Information System went online in 2003, so by 2009 it had been running for six years. In theory, it should have information on every F-1 visa holder, but in practice, there could be a delay in entering the data.] [How long a delay?] [Normally, the school registers students in the Student and Exchange Visitor Information System as soon as they're admitted. After a student gets a visa, the consulate sends the visa information back to the Department of Homeland Security. The whole process takes about one to two months.] [The streamer said he'd only arrived in the United States recently. If he enrolled in March under some unusual circumstances, the information in the Student and Exchange Visitor Information System might not have finished syncing yet. Besides, in my experience, the police should help him.]
Morales stared at the screen for a few seconds, then turned to look at Lin An.
Lin An stood there, his expression unchanged, wearing the same polite smile.
Inspector Morales spoke up.
"Dr. Lin An transferred from the Massachusetts Institute of Technology to Columbia University with his advisor, Professor Robert Jero. His transfer paperwork may not have been fully entered into the system yet."
"Jenny, issue Dr. Lin An a police report card first so he has a report number and can replace his documents. Add a note: 'Visa information pending verification.'"
Jenny glanced at him, nodded, and began typing.
[He's in the clear?] [He got through just like that?] [How did this police lieutenant come up with all those details for the streamer?] [What's going on now?] [Nothing's going on. This is normal.] [How is that normal?] [Because the streamer has skills. Whatever his situation is, he can solve the police's tax problems right now. Skipping the reporting process is nothing. Helping the streamer kill an American wouldn't even be a big deal.] [Holy shit.] [That's reality, kid. The United States is a capitalist country.]
The printer whirred, and a white card slid out.
Jenny picked it up, checked it over, then handed it to Morales.
Morales glanced at it and passed it to Lin An.
"Dr. Lin An, this is your police report number card. You can use it to replace your passport and visa."
Lin An took it and looked it over.
It had his name, the date of the report, the report number, and a small note: "Visa information pending verification."
"Thank you, Inspector Morales."
He folded the card and put it in his pocket.
Morales nodded, then glanced at his watch.
"It's about time for lunch."
He said.
"Dr. Lin An, do you have any plans for lunch?"
"No."
"Then let's have lunch together. There's a Cuban Restaurant across from the precinct. Their roast pork is pretty good."
The two police officers beside them fell silent, not daring to say a word.
Before you continue