Wake of the Storm - The Mason Storm Series Book One

Chapter 25

Mia and I walk shoulder to shoulder toward Davis's office. I'm glad she is by my side, but I'm in denial and we both know it. I contin- ue to shirk and sidestep the real issues in my life, which (sadly) is Death. My mind constantly spends its time doing its very best to unveil layers of ancient history. Hard as I try, I can't keep it from wandering.

That's the thing with time; it never stops. The constant tick-tock is always there, forecasting and arm-twisting. It's in every moment, in every gesture. The pendulum continues to sweep, taking the present; taking another now and adding it to the pile of moments spent, lost and gone forever. Do you ever wonder what this world would be like if everyone had one free do-it-over that could change one of those moments? What about this: What if you could see inside the head of everyone else? You know, read those thoughts right behind the eyes. What if you actually did have that sixth sense? Or, the ability to pick out the villain from a group of middle-aged, pot-bellied yuppies, sipping coffee at some outdoor café; secretly surfing the Internet in search of twelve-year-old boys in compromising positions? What if you could play God for just one of those moments? Would you strike first? Kill, even? The whole Old Testament, eye-for-an-eye mentality?

Justice with a badge after the fact is really no justice at all. Just ask the victim's families. I think all detectives have a little of the God Complex in them. I'd even go as far as to say most people do. I know, there are some of you out there who are sanctimonious and think that you're above this . . . but you're not. You just haven't experienced death firsthand. You haven't put on a pair of rubber gloves to pull severed limbs from a garbage dumpster, or been part of a search team that finds the bloody underwear of a nine-year-old girl, but never finds the body . . . worse yet, you've never had to deliver that same news to the grieving parents.

Homicide detectives deal in Death; it's our bread and butter. Our grind. Without it, we would just be everyday people, doing everyday things. I don't know if this all makes me a kill-joy, or some Prophet of Doom, but I live on the edge of Death every day and this is what it does; eats you up and overtakes your life.

We make it to Davis's door and it's cracked open. He's giving someone on the other end of the phone "the business," as I tap and push the door open. He waves us in and hangs up.

"Well, if it isn't Beauty and the Beast."

"Witty," I grumble. "How long have you been working on that one?" "Haven't been home in almost two days."

"Well, it's nice to see death hasn't affected your sense of humor," Mia says to the both of us.

Davis gives me a look. "Is she always such a drag?" He asks, punching her playfully in the shoulder.

Davis is big, black and mean. There's no other way to put it. He's been around the block ten times over. In fact, these exact blocks, in this city. He used to be a FED and a profiler at that. He wasn't much for kissing bureaucratic derrière, and decking one of his superiors didn't exactly bode well for advancing his career. He eventually traded in the dark suits and even darker shades for khakis . . . and today, a pink button- up with an even pinker tie. (You can make fun of him if you'd like . . . it's your life.)

We decide it'd be better to move our meeting to the conference room, where there's more room. On our way there, we pass the other homicide offices and the detectives at their desks are on the phone, or banging their fingers across keyboards, following leads and interviewing witnesses; moving from one dead-end to the next with systematic indifference. Just trying to make a living. Everyone, as stupid as it sounds, chasing Death.

I envy these guys; the way they nonchalantly close their office doors at the end of the day and head for the nearest happy hour, passively leaving murder right on top of their desks. Most of them understand we live in a world where people kill people, and most of them have stopped asking why. I can't do it though. My guilty conscious has made camp on my desk, and won't leave.