How to Kill a Murderer

Working as a Pawn

The detective slammed his fist into the door in front of him as his keys slipped from his hands once again. He ran his hand through his unwashed hair. His jaw was sore from grinding his teeth for weeks on end, his eyes stung from their dryness, and his head just had an alarming, rhythmic pound to it.

He hardly remembered getting up in the morning, his mind was swamped with the visions and images of news stories explaining the young man's death as he protected the city. Ian, his good friend, was being called anything from a martyr by the aristocrats to a villain by the lower-class citizens of New York and even the people of the surrounding states.

The detective was teeming on the edge of a meltdown, his trigger finger was awfully twitchy recently. Unfortunately, his reasonability got the better of him and he shrugged his problems off, grabbing his keys and finally getting the door to creak open.

He flicked on the lights to the dark, musty, old office. Like something out of a mystery movie, the walls were decked out in bookshelves lined with files and books, boards with red string making connections between scraps of paper, and a rickety desk sat at the far end. The broken blinds behind it were pulled shut, but it was so early, that the sun hadn't even poked it's head above the city yet.

The lights flickered momentarily as he stepped inside, the wafting stench of mildew and dust assaulted his senses. He cleared his throat and set his box of stuff back onto his desk before pulling his trench coat off. It felt good to be at home again. Well, he wanted to say it felt perfect, but the empty desk in the other half of the room made it seem so damn lonely. It appeared they had already cleared out his stuff and sent it home to his grieving widow, all except for a few dusty boxes with more files inside. He lowered his head in sorrow, he had hoped to maybe sneak something from his items to keep selfishly for himself. Now that would be impossible.

He unloaded his bag from his shoulder and began to unpack. He reached into the bag and pulled out a small, hand-held radio and put it on the table, turning it up. The music was classic and sweet. He hummed along as he continued setting his computer down, arranging his writing utensils, and placing his name tag where it belonged. It was starting to look more and more like how it had been when he packed up.

The detective had been suspended for four weeks by this point, stuck at home mercilessly working to try and solve the "blue" case before it was even called that. Then, when he'd gotten the news of his friends murder, his tireless work turned into endless drinking.

If only they had listened to him. For the last three years he'd been trying to warn them that something about this case was off. It wasn't something a rookie should be assigned to. He fought for months to get Ian on a safer case, but in the end it cost him. He was suspended, and he constantly thought to himself, what if he had been there that day? Could he have saved Ian?

"It seems you're quickly getting settled in," a voice startled him from behind.

The detective swung around and froze, his brow furrowing as he faced the Chief of Police once again. He reached down and turned the radio back off, frustrated that he was about to miss the best part.

"Sorry to startle you. I noticed your car out in the parking lot so I thought I'd come by, pay you a visit, and welcome you back," he chuckled, striding into the room.

"Thanks," Detective Samhit responded curtly.

The detectives eyes went cold for a moment as they stared at eachother with a deep-rooted animosity. He gave a fake cough and a sigh, looking around the office awkwardly.

"Well, I wanted to tell you, you'll have a new partner today. Though I'm not sure if I'm going to assign them to the same case as you," he yawned, ignoring the hostility clouding the room. "You'll just have to hand him your current cases, if they haven't already been taken care of in your absence, and then focus on this Blue case."