Eyes on The Damned

Chapter 2

21 August

It was almost midnight when Jim finally reached home. He bolted the door, shutting the world out of the loft. He stripped off his coat and hung it up, taking a deep breath.

He remembered the girl's body, dark hair partially covering her face, bruises on her wrists and throat, her sweater torn. He remembered the smell of her nail polish, the sparkle of the earrings she'd laid out in her bedroom. A normal girl getting ready for a date. She had everything to live for, and now she was dead.

He shook his head. Where was his detachment now?

He headed into the shower, peeling off his garments as he went. The hot water beating against his skin relaxed him, helping him to put the memory back where it belonged. It was only because he was tired. He stepped out of the shower and pulled on a robe. He walked out of the bathroom and hesitated in the doorway, surveying his living space.

Tania Roca. Ellison was vaguely familiar with her work as a journalist. It was only a few days before that he, and several friends, had been talking about her, right here in this room.

14 August (1 week earlier)

It was one of those rare evenings when they all managed to get the same evening off, and even better, it was Fight Friday. It was Jim's turn to play host so the other cops gathered at the loft to watch the boxing, share beer and junk food and generally relax.

The fight was over - Jim lost his bet but he didn't care. He was laughing along with everyone else as they bantered.

After a while the conversation turned naturally to work. Jim was in the kitchen getting more beer from the refrigerator when he heard Taggert ask Brown something about the Lamarche case. The question got Jim's attention because as far as he knew the case was...well, not closed, because they'd never solved it, but at least shelved. He headed back to the others.

"That's an old case, Joel," Jim said. "Why bring it up now?"

"It came up in a conversation today," Taggert answered.

"What were you doing discussing a case outside the office?" Simon asked him.

Taggert looked at his empty beer bottle then set it down. "I didn't discuss it. I had a meeting with someone today: a journalist. Tania Roca."

"You met with a journalist," Simon repeated.

Brown recognised the name. "Hey, she's the one who wrote those articles about the DA's office last year. She helped expose Hal Fazzino, right?"

"That's the one," Taggert confirmed. "Turns out she writes the Eye on Cascade blog, too."

"That crappy crime blog?" Brown snorted.

"It's not that crappy," Jim said mildly. "The current stuff is good. It's the so-called retrospectives that belong to the tin-hat brigade."

"What did you tell her, Joel?" Simon asked, his tone irritated.

"I didn't tell her anything. She told me. She asked for a quote, but I just said I couldn't comment on open cases."

"She told you what?" Simon rolled a cigar between his fingers, frowning.

"She had a list of our unsolved cases - maybe ten of them - that she thinks are linked in some way. Lamarche was one of them."

"Linked how?" Jim asked.

"She didn't come right out and say it, but I got the impression she thinks there's a cover up going on."

"Ridiculous," Simon declared.

Jim nodded agreement. "Sounds like she's just fishing for a new scandal. She won't find one in our department."

Simon nodded grimly. "Let's hope - " He broke off as his cellphone interrupted. He stood, walking away from the group as he answered the phone. "Banks. Yes...just a moment." Simon glanced back to the others.

The look let Jim know Simon didn't want his call overheard, and he nodded toward the balcony. Simon could talk privately out there.

Simon took the hint, speaking quietly into the phone as he walked out onto the balcony. Jim, respecting his friend's privacy, didn't try to listen.

Moments later Simon was back. "Sorry, guys, I'm going to have to call it a night."

"Trouble, Simon?" Jim asked.

Simon shook his head, but his was already reaching for his coat. "Personal. Thanks for the beer, Jim." He hurried out of the door.

Jim glanced at Taggert, but decided against reviving the conversation. "Anyone want more beer?" he offered.

22 August 1:00am

Sitting on the edge of his bed, Jim's window gave him a view of the city streets below. Reflections of lights filled the room, casting coloured shadows on the walls. He could hear cars passing by. This late at night, the streets of Cascade belonged to the criminals: the prostitutes and pimps, the drug dealers and gangs, the scum of the city he was sworn to protect.

Jim opened the bedside drawer and picked up the worn photograph. It was the only one he still kept of her: he had destroyed the others. In the photograph, taken at one of the formal police dinners they attended every year, Jim wore a tuxedo and she wore a deep green dress. The green brought out her hazel eyes and the fiery highlights of her hair. She was holding a champagne glass and the ring Jim had given her sparkled on her finger.

Less than a month after this photograph was taken, she had been dead.

He touched her smiling face with his fingertips, but a photograph was a poor substitute for the memory of her soft skin under his hands, the scent of her perfume. Jim sat there for a long time, reliving his memories.

Finally, Jim placed the photograph on his nightstand, propped up next to his gun. He lay down in his bed and tried to sleep.