I was Born in Louisiana

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"My name is John Reginald Powell."

A black man walks into the police department with his eyes wide open. There is something sinister about him. He is apparently dressed in pure madness. But he is confused, he doesn't remember. His mind rushes to his rescue, unexpectedly bringing back the sweet memories of childhood, the reminiscences of a happy period that he had, for an unspecified reason, set aside in a remote corner of his memory. He confesses to having killed but does not seem repentant. He appears rather disjointed, stunned, upset.

Meanwhile he retraces his life, browses through his memories, searches for the source of that discomfort.

The doubt that assails is whether we are faced with a meek man who hides a dark side or a dark man who retains a meek side.

There will be no need to investigate. No long confession will be needed for John Reginald Powell. The unexpected solution to the case will erupt with the violence of a volcano and will throw the entire police department into total confusion.