Waking Up for the Night Shift (standard:drama, 2707 words)
Author: FlutterWrites	Added: Mar 21 2013	Views/Reads: 3533/2158	Story vote: 0.00 (0 votes)
Musings of a Detective on his Way to Work

Click here to read the first 75 lines of the story

lock their doors and not go out at night alone. “I'm not paranoid”, I 
tell them, and “There are sick people in this world.” The last thing I 
want is to be investigating their deaths next. 

I remember one case of the death of a 20 year old girl. Annabelle was
her name, she was found dumped in a park with strangulation marks on 
her neck. Clad in cotton summer dress, she was pretty, thin-boned and 
very petite. To her killer that translated that she had no way of 
fighting back. I bore the burden of breaking the news to her father. 
All I can say is that the news broke him. He wanted the straight truth, 
and I gave it to him. This man sobbed loudly, cursing himself for not 
somehow being able to prevent this from happening. I never knew 
Annabelle the way he did, but I felt his helplessness emanating from 
him. It was then, that I did something that I shouldn't have. 

In my clenched anger towards this unknown perpetrator, I swore that I
would find him and lock him away so that Annabelle would have justice. 
It is my job to be the voice of those who had been so cruelly silenced. 
Let the perpetrator try to justify his sick act behind bars. He can 
wail all he wants about his ‘rights' being taken away when I send his 
good-for-nothing hide to prison. At least, I'll rest easy knowing that 
I've done my part to keep this from happening again to other law 
abiding citizens. 

If you're wondering, I never did catch the man who killed Annabelle. But
I haven't forgotten about her, and in my spare time I keep on 
searching. It doesn't matter that now she's been classified as a cold 
case and I now investigate on my own dime. It doesn't matter that new 
cases keep piling up, and I must investigate their deaths while trying 
to console the surviving loved ones. I will find this awful man. I will 
send him off to be punished to the fullest extent of the law. Her 
father is counting on my promise made that awful day. Annabelle won't 
rest in peace until then. 

Lord helps me, because when I do find him, my first instinct will be to
send him to hell personally. People raise their eyebrows when I say 
that I believe in the Devil. Trust me, after becoming a detective and 
after having witnessed firsthand the hatred that permeates this world, 
you would believe in him too.  There are acts that are so vile, so 
deeply evil, committed with such callousness that they are simply 
inhuman. 

Serial killers for example have now reached an almost god-like status in
our entertainment . Screenplays have taught us to identify with the 
killer , be transfixed by his method of operations and revere his 
brilliance . If time allows , pan to dead victims family for added plot 
device. But , in the meantime , show us scene after scene of a deeply 
disturbed killer who revels in taking away life. But writers and 
directors never seem to answer the burning question ? Why ? 

That was the same question I put to a suspect . After a series of
unexplainable murders a profiler decided to rule them a serial killing. 
Persons of interest were then asked routine questions to determine 
whether or not they could be connected to the victims in some way . My 
partner and I spent two weeks tracking down and interviewing a handful 
of people from different walks of life . A heroin addict, a high class 
corporate lawyer , a bike salesman , a young fashion designer, a 
college dropout , and a gang member were among those whom we 
interviewed. 

Each answered our questions without any hesitation . Suspects won't be
determined until we sort out their information later . But I know who 
did it . Of course , I still can't prove it . But one day he'll show 
his cards again. A clean-cut young man , in his early thirties , with 
sandy brown hair and freckles . He was raised in a stable home and 
graduated at the top of his class . That's the serial killer . How do I 
know ? He told me . 

There's that question again – why ? At his place of employment , I
showed the bike salesman a few photos of the victim . His face became 
twisted in horror at seeing an ordinary family man lying on a slab in 
the morgue . But for a split second the edge of his lip curled upwards 
.A tiny self-satisfied smirk betrayed the true nature behind the fine 
tuned mask of morality he pretends to wear . No one caught it but me . 
But , I couldn't be sure . 

My partner was interviewing the salesman's boss , asking for a
verification of his employees whereabouts .  They both were out of 
earshot . It was now just the salesman and I . I asked him the question 
that only the killer would be able to answer. My voice was low , a 
barely audible whisper. 

“Why ?” 

His expression changed immediately , his warm smile evaporated and his
eyes gave me a stone cold stare. His voice was clear as a bell. 

“Why not ?” 

There were no maniacal laughs , no monologues of his  superiority , no
pseudo –science reasoning  explaining his madness. Nothing .  He simply 
turned and helped the next customer who had flagged him down . With a 
wide smile he explained the new features on their latest model of bike. 


I can feel my blood pressure rising , the vein in my forehead is
starting to throb. 

It is a sign of a deeply perverse and wicked society that believes it
has the right to take away the life of a vulnerable soul and then 
simply dethatch itself from said act with no remorse or pity. Its times 
like these that I wonder where went our humanity. 

Ok, Ok, breathe Scott. You need to reel it in, if you expect to do your
job well. A ‘hero's' fury' won't help dispel the preconceived notions 
that people have with detectives. That being said, I wouldn't change my 
occupation for the world. 

Driving down the highway in the middle of the night, it is quieter than
a grave . But then I spot a few hoodie clad figures walking by the side 
of the street. Please, please stay safe. I don't know what you are 
doing so late at night, but please stay alive until daylight. I take a 
few bits of my energy bar while I read the dashboard clock, its 2:30 in 
the morning. 

It's cheesy to say, but I truly went into this job to help people. I
believe whole heartedly in the “protect and serve” mantra of the police 
force. 

If you're thinking I'm one of those detectives that cherry picks which
victims were more deserving. You'd be wrong. Dead wrong. I can't stand 
those that believe that way, even if they are civilians. Yes, victims 
who were good people will be truly missed. But victims who were of a 
low social class are still victims. Maybe they have no one in their 
lives to mourn them but they have the same right to be put to rest 
peacefully. I'll find out who killed you, I promise. There I go again, 
making promises I can't keep. 

I am becoming emotionally involved again. But, hey at least it means
that I care about the people I investigate. Sure, it means attending 
more funerals every month than any normal human being should, but it's 
worth it. I've never been good at communicating my concern for others 
through words. But through my actions, they know. I'm not a judge, jury 
or an executioner, but I'm on their side. 

I'm no saint myself , but  I pray that I have the strength to continue
to protect the innocent , and the vulnerable in whatever way I can . 
Who else will? 

Growing up as a kid, I never felt safe. I wasn't strong, brilliant or
special. I felt all alone in a world of blood thirsty wolves gnawing at 
the chance to destroy me. I thought maybe if I was a superhero, it 
would all change. No villain would hurt me. I would never feel weak 
again, and I'd dedicate my life to protecting humanity from the 
clutches of evil. I'd especially protect young boys like me who felt 
powerless their entire lives. My solemn oath to protect the forgotten 
would be unbreakable. Maybe one day I'd meet a girl superhero, and then 
we'd protect the earth forever. 

I chuckle when I think back to my childhood dreams. I can tell you that
I never did get super powers. Instead of a cape, I wear a badge. No 
matter how hard this job gets, my desire to help others won't be 
quenched. I'm still looking for the Missus Superhero. But, I'll worry 
about that some other time. 

I've reached the crime scene. Reporters have already begun to swarm and
the crime scene investigators are already on the job collecting 
samples. I park a few blocks back, not wanting to make a grand 
entrance. 

The yellow crime scene tape ropes off the alley and a huge crowd of
onlookers. They gossip and speculate about the victim and who they felt 
committed the crime. A wave of tips is going to start pouring from the 
phone lines, most of which are useless. But once in a while, we strike 
gold. 

Dodging the flashing lights of the cameras and the cluster of questions
from prying reporters .I approach a burly police man guarding the 
blocked off street. But I flash my badge and he lifts up the yellow 
tape, allowing me entry no questions asked. 

My partner motions me over .He spoke the coroner and they have the
ruling. “Homicide,” he says. “Precinct has given permission to 
investigate, proceed.” 

The victim is a young man, mid –twenties, of mixed race background that
we will determine later with no ID. Possible robbery, but we will 
determine that later.  No witnesses. Naturally. But his phone has been 
left on his person. It begins to ring, and I answer it. 

“Hello? Matthew, where are you?” says a voice on the other end .It's a
female, and she sounds troubled. 

“No ma'am this isn't Matthew. Who may I ask is this?” 

“It's Carla, and who is this?” Now she sounds really worried.” 

“Detective Scott Robertson, Precinct 23, badge number 7624” 

Carla begins to sob loudly, I hear in the background voices of what must
be her family demanding to know what is going on. 

“What happened to him? What happened to my boy? “, she wails .After that
her words are unintelligible, but grief transcends the sounds she 
utters. 

I never know how to properly answer this question. I take a small moment
to look back at her boy. He's lying on the ground, eyes closed curled 
up in a small ball. Blood on his chest show that he's been stabbed 
multiple times. We will determine the weapon later. 

So, this body is Matthew.  I whisper to him in my head before turning
around to answer who I presume on the phone must be his mother. 

Hello Matthew. I'm Scott. I'm going to find out who killed you, I
promise. 


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