Little Angel

Vera Klein

Sheriff Dowling got a call from a concerned mother. She swore her son was a good boy, her little angel. He wanted to help with the serial killer investigation. He saw something.
“That was Dowling,” Bruce said. “He says someone saw the murder last night, and they want to talk to us.”
Dowling called Bruce, maybe thinking he was the lead on the case, or maybe his small-town bias was showing. A woman FBI agent was probably preposterous to him. I had noticed there were no women cops in town. Most of the women in town were prim and proper, kinda like some old movie. It felt surreal to me. I was used to the hustle and bustle of a large city. People of all genders, all races, working shoulder to shoulder. I guess handling beer theft was a little much for us fragile souls.
Yeah. I had a chip on my shoulder. I had worked hard to get to where I was. I had encountered misogynistic men my entire life, it was par for the course in my profession.
I brushed it off. I was probably thinking too much into it actually. This town was making me uneasy. Too prejudice. We need to solve this case, and the recent news was a good sign. An eye-witness.


We pulled up to the Triche residence. Three people lived here: Eblis Triche, Edrie Triche, and Ethan Triche. Father, mother, and son.
Bruce and I got out and walked to the door. As we approached, a car screeched behind us. A battered-up Toyota Carolla skidded out and parked beside the curb. A tall man jumped out of the car. His brown hair wasn’t combed. He had on a flannel shirt with rolled up sleeves and jeans. He tripped over the curb and was slow catching himself, face-planting on the lawn. He got back up and rushed me. He didn’t rush Bruce, of course, now was the time the weak wanted to talk to a woman.
He put his finger in my face. Bruce didn’t jump in, he knew me. He knew I could handle one drunken slob.
“What the fruck are you droin’ in front of MRY house,” Eblis, I was assuming, said. “What the fruck drid thrat britch trell you?”
“Sir. Are you drunk?”
He laughed. “Drunk. And… if I… am?”
“We just saw you get out of a car.”
“So take me in you britch. I’ll be out tromorrow.”
“Dowling. Can you detain this man? We have business to take care of inside.”
He looked to Bruce.
“Do it!” Bruce shouted.
“Of course. Of course,” Sheriff Dowling said.
Eblis started crying. “Dohling. I thought wree wrere close. Hrow can you droo this to mree.” Then he raised his voice and shouted at the house. “Hrow can that britch do this to mree!”
“This has nothing to do with your wife doing anything to you,” I said. “You’re impeding an investigation. This really has nothing to do with you. I repeat. Absolutely nothing. Just like you said. You’ll be out tomorrow.”


We walked into the Triche residence. Ethan Triche was sitting on the sofa, head down. Edrie Triche greeted us at the door, much more cheerful than she should have been, given the circumstances. Prim and proper. Prim and proper with a black eye. I bet I know where that came from. My good ol’ friend Eblis Triche.
I took a quick glance around the home. Nicely decorated, except for the numerous holes in the drywall. Another Eblis Triche signature.