Glory.

13

Blu leaned forward, his eyes focused on the entrance of Lucky Cheng's. His car was littered with an array takeout bags—we had been at it for hours. Nothing made sense. I just wanted to give up and throw this case out.  But, according to Blu, this wasn't my call to make.

The results from the lipstick were inconclusive so we were seemingly right back where we started...again. This murderer was giving us a run for our money.

A loud huff sliced through the silence. "Can you ever just chill?" Blu sighed, aggravation set on his features. I was fidgeting and flipping through the radio stations. "You're on fucking edge right now and it's nerve wrecking."

I didn't argue. I just sat back, averting my gaze to my lap.

Grief had a funny way of sneaking up on me. One moment I felt fine, even free, then other times I felt more trapped than ever. I'd read in a magazine that closure was a myth but for some reason, I felt myself yearning for it—I wanted an explanation, an apology, something other than their complete absence. It wasn't enough.

When I was younger, I prayed for the Grim Reaper to save me or for God to see me for who I was—a boy in need of rescuing. I was God fearing at the time, I was nice to strangers, obeyed my parents, and did my homework. I was taught that the good ones were successful and the bad ones suffered from the wrath of Christ. And that they did.

But it wasn't enough. Some nights I wept for my parents like a newborn, yearning for his father's embrace or his mother's lullaby. And other nights, I'd stare blankly at my breakfast and watch Jude toy with his hearing aid, forgetting that both of my parents were dead.

Victoria noticed my grieving process and gave me space. I was still uncomfortable in her presence—it was weird. I didn't know what we were doing. It felt like we were from some 70's show, living a makeshift dynamic—loving wife, happy kids, working father. It was a fucking joke. This must be my hell. I had to have died and gone to hell.

My sex drive was depleting and I'd recently started swapping out my black coffee for two shots of Maker's Mark—something to kick off the day. I was mourning. This is how I cope. Shamelessly. You can't judge a grieving man.

"It's not making any sense," Blu groaned while massaging his temples. I'd dosed off about three times by now, bored with the investigation. My shoulder was beginning to ache from being so crammed in the car. I understood his frustration with this case but these were lousy leads and he was being too tedious. Every detective wants to solve whatever case lands on their desk but that's not realistic. The reality is that if you don't get any new leads within three months, you have to close the case—impending inactive, no further leads or something along those lines. We've had to do that to six cases so far. This one would be next in just a months time.

We had rapes, robberies, stabbing, shootings, etc. fall onto our lap while we worked this case and we still had no answers—after weeks of cold cases and solved cases. We were left more puzzled than how we started and asking the same question. What was the killer gaining from this? "You know," I sighed. "I should just request to go back to patrol." Blu shot me a look that I shrugged off. "Where you're always done when the day ends."

"Yeah, sounds like you to avoid having to put in any work." He insulted. Jesus, lighten up a little.

"Call it what you want." Solving a case means going through many details, and boring trivial bullshit to out some kind of truth. I guess I'd just developed a sour outlook from my constant exposure to criminals, liars, and loads of unbelievably stupid people. But, oh well.

"Is that Victoria?" I ignored whatever Blu said after his initial question and snapped my neck into the direction of the door. I squinted but couldn't get a good look so I snatched the binoculars out of the console.