|Waking Up for the Night Shift (standard:drama, 2707 words)|
|Author: FlutterWrites||Added: Mar 21 2013||Views/Reads: 1949/1036||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 Click here to read the rest of this story (207 more lines)
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