A seven-year-old girl told the desk officer, “Daddy put something inside my sister’s belly.” Then she clarified, “He made her swallow it and told her not to tell anyone.”

Then she sat on the linoleum floor, pulled off her shoe, and peeled back the loose, worn insole.

An empty oral medicine syringe slid into her small palm.

She had hidden it there because, in her words, “Daddy checks our pockets.”

Paul felt an immediate spike of adrenaline, but he kept his face completely neutral and his voice level. He asked whether the syringe had a needle. Nora said no. He asked whether anything remained inside. She said she did not know.

He did not touch the plastic with his bare hands. Instead, he laid a clean evidence envelope on the counter, asked Nora to place the syringe inside, and wrote the exact time on the paper flap: 4:17 p.m.

Then he picked up the desk line and called for an ambulance.

The dispatcher’s voice came through the receiver while Paul watched Violet’s face turn dangerously pale beneath the harsh station light. He gave their ages—seven years old—described the severe abdominal pain and sudden onset drowsiness, and requested an urgent medical unit without naming a drug he could not yet identify.