Waking Up for the Night Shift (standard:drama, 2707 words)
Author: FlutterWrites	Added: Mar 21 2013	Views/Reads: 3530/2156	Story vote: 0.00 (0 votes)
Musings of a Detective on his Way to Work

Fumbling around in the darkness, trying to unravel the bed sheets that
have encased me I scramble to read the time on the clock. 1:50 A.M. 
Glancing around my room, I try to unwind my days worries in an attempt 
to grab a few hours of sleep. But I shouldn't bother, my nights are 
usually sleepless. I am always anxiously waiting for the buzzer to go 
off. I wake up every few hours so as not to oversleep. Therefore I can 
never really relax. Also, it's not uncommon that my job calls me in the 
middle of the night, so why bother to sleep at all? 

But every once in a while my eyelids will droop and my thoughts will
become light. Just when my head feels heavy enough to rest, my phone 
suddenly rings. Glancing at the text, I realize that I won't be getting 
any sleep tonight anyway. 

We've got another body, and it's only been dead for an hour. The next
hours will be essential to gather precious evidence. It's not like the 
movies where every detail, every clue jumps out so obviously that the 
handsome plucky detective can't help but solve the case. 

No, the reality is that with every passing second that is not used
investigating, a key piece of evidence vanishes into thin air. There 
isn't a set list of suspects, there's no motive and there's no weapon. 
Yet. At times, we are lucky to find an ID on the deceased. 

In less than 10 minutes I am changed and ready to go. A splash of ice
cold water on my face and a piping hot thermos of black coffee are my 
daily saviors. In fact, I credit the continuous supply of caffeine in 
my apartment the reason for my sanity .I race out the door with my 
notepad, which is the real weapon of any real detective. I actually 
hate having to use my gun. Every time I pull it out, even if the 
situation calls for it, it means things have gotten really bad. 

A flash back to when I had to shoot a guy who had overdosed on PCP who
had begun punching an elderly storekeeper.  The pill head pulled 
through, but the media vilified the act citing ‘police brutality ‘. 
Naturally, no one bothered to ask about the storekeeper; Phil. Phil had 
to get stitches across his face and suffered several fractures. After a 
few weeks of being in a coma, he was finally able to go back to his 
family. Despite the media frenzy, he told me that he appreciated me 
saving his life. I am now welcome to free donuts for life from his 
store. 

Unfortunately my state-appointed therapist of who I was contractually
obligated to speak to didn't see it the same way. 

Don't let the shows fool you. Being a detective isn't nearly as
glamorous as those perfectly coiffed, cocky, pretty boy detectives. 

Ugh, they give us a bad name in my opinion. The corrupt cop/ detective
troupes have also gotten on my last nerves. 

Here I am, day after day doing my part to keep this god forsaken city of
mine safe. By the way, I don't get just one case that I ‘magically' 
solve in a scripted hour .It more like 20 cases. Per month, not to 
mention the cold cases. Plus , I have to document every action , every 
reaction , every syllable that transpired in any of my investigations , 
for fear some snooty layer feel they can sue me .Or worse , an 
unrepentant criminal walks due to a filing error on my part. 

Working in homicide, I've had to become accustomed to smell of death. I
can stomach it, but I'll never truly be at peace with it. Even as a 
grown man, I'll admit that some crime scenes are too intense for me to 
handle. But I'll swallow the shock as I always do, how else am I 
supposed to catch the psycho that caused it if I'm not composed? The 
day that death stops bothering me is the day I deserve to be fired from 
my job. A heartless detective is good to no one. 

But there's been a time when it's tested me.  Murder is never an easy
thing, but is cuts me deeply when a more vulnerable being is killed 
simply because it couldn't protect itself. The death of a small child 
or women for example really eats at me. 

My nephew who just turned seven this year, thinks I'm a basket case
because I never let him out of his sight when he visits me. Similarly, 
all of my female neighbors think that I am crazy when I tell them to 


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