|The shitty burglar - Detective (standard:mystery, 7273 words)|
|Author: hvysmker||Added: May 19 2005||Views/Reads: 2809/1864||Story vote: 0.00 (0 votes)|
|Warning - Adult Language. a little over 7,000 A big city detective gets an unusual partner, Hooker to Cop. They don't get along too well.|
“So you see, that's why you shouldn't always trust witnesses to a crime,” Detective Sergeant John Jablonski told the Law Enforcement Class at Smith City Community College, “our Mr. Jacobs spent almost twenty years in jail for multiple rapes because of their testimony, only to be acquitted when DNA came into vogue. Even with the best intentions, using it for evidence is not absolute proof.” Whooo, Jablonski thought, going to the back of the room to resume his seat until the end of the period. “I hate this shit,” he muttered to a gray looking old lady seated next to him. “You hate it? This class graduates next week, and I got to start all over with another buncha' fuckin' idiots.” The old lady patted John on the leg, to close to his crotch to suit him. Brushing her bony hand off, he studied the faces of the students to see how they had taken his little speech. What the hell! He saw a familiar face in the sixth row. I'd swear that's Dawn Delight the hooker, he thought, astonished. No, it couldn't be. But then, she had never really been convicted, a thorn in his side since he had arrested her twice just to see her get off on technicalities. *** “Two more this morning, John.” Detective Eddy Johnson informed him when he reported to work, “actually two for you and another two for me.” Each of them, the detectives, had an average of six cases to work at any one time. Not as bad as it sounded since the number included cases stalled by various means. Meaning almost anything from waiting for suspects and witnesses to be found, or come in; lawyer holdups; FBI or lab reports; or a myriad of other reasons. There had been a particularly offensive series of break-ins lately, only single women. The perpetrator would only go in while they were home, cleverly avoiding contact. At first he or they would quietly steal valuables, a quick in and out job. Lately he-they were taking more time and chances of discovery. More on the order of expensive pranks than professionalism. They were often doing things like fixing and eating a meal or spreading the contents of drawers around the house while the occupant slept. In one case even laying a pet goldfish on a slice of bread with mustard, leaving it to die. He-they wanted the victim to see she had been robbed. The one consistent detail, not reported in the news, was a pile of shit left on the kitchen table. If the cases followed a natural progression, he-they would eventually turn to assault, rape, or worse. It seemed to be a thrill type crime, which normally escalated in intensity as the perpetrator grew ever more jaded. Not much was ever stolen, only small expensive articles or contents of purses. Jablonski had to try to find the perp before it got to rape or murder. “Any from the shitty guys?” Jablonski took the paperwork and sat down at his desk. The desktop was clean, except for some sort of sticky stain, probably from the coke machine in the corridor. The Lieutenant, predictably known as “Louie” although his name was “Harry,” insisted on a clean desk when you left for any reason. The reason being that one particular perp had found the names of witnesses to a buddy's crime on a jumbled desk top. The guy had told his friend and the precinct had all hell to pay. Top clean and drawers locked, was the rule after that episode. “Shit,” Jablonski saw a distinctive yellow “Stickit” note on one corner of his desk. The Lieutenant must buy them by the hundreds, all yellow, Jablonski thought. It instructed him to go in and see the Lieutenant when he arrived. Not knowing whether he would be back to the desk or not, the detective sergeant only opened one padlocked drawer, put the new case files in, and locked the drawer again, putting the key back in his pocket. He went to a glass enclosed cubicle in the corner of the room and knocked on its plywood door. Jablonski knew that makeshift door made the Lieutenant mad every time he tried to look out to check on his detectives. It left a huge blind Click here to read the rest of this story (769 more lines)
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