The Writers' Circle

The call comes. Body, female. Homicide. Roughly 2 hours old. Signs of a struggle. Did she know who? Who killed her? Yell for Don. Whistle for a cab. He discusses pregnant wife. Christ, he bores me. Note to self; Ask chief for new partner. Spanish cabbie nosey. Will get Don to pay. Pulls up outside the Building. Shit-hole. Skag addicts and paedophiles. Uniform waiting for us. Hot coffee. Tastes crap, down the drain. Don chats amiably to the officer. God, he's a brown-nosed bastard. I ask about the victim. No identity yet. Blonde, 5"5, late thirties. No known family. 
I leave Don. Take the stairs. Old guy smoking a joint. Shuffles away as I pass. Two more flights. I need to get fit. Down a notch on my belt. One flight. Smell of burning. Pass some junkie assholes. Reached the floor. Red tape. Perez sticking it to the press. Good man, fine officer. Block a camera, enter the apartment. Place stinks. The body's on the floor. Gun nowhere to be found. Forensics fill me in; Shotgun blast to the chest. Managed to crawl to the phone. Dialed. 911. Christ, she's a sorry sight. Ask if the apartment has been searched. No, sir. Peruse the kitchen. Baby food in fridge. Empty cot in bedroom. Baby toys in lounge. No baby. Shit. First thing to do; Find the father. Could be classic case of angry father stealing child. Things get out of hand. Kills the mother. Runs with the baby. Poor thing. Back to the body. Get the officers to do a search. Diaries, phone books. Anything to help find a possible father. Could be barking up the wrong tree. But it's the best place to start. Speaking to victims friends might help. I'll get an APB put out. 
Don arrives. Flustered. Good to know. Not just me having trouble with the stairs. Fill him in. He agrees with me about the father. Of course he does. Walk out. Stairs are easier going down. Get to the bottom and spark up. God bless cigarettes. The succulent paper, dry tobacco. Fill my lungs. Hold for ages. Impossibly long. Breathe out. Repeat. You're half-way to bliss. Get another cab. Stuck in traffic on way back to the office. Pick up the paperwork for the Miles murder last week. Busy month. Chief catches me in the corridor. Tell him about Don. Crawlin' up other officers asses. Tells me to give him a go. He's really "a nice guy". Tch, yeah, right. Four failed partnerships in as many months. 
All went downhill when Sam died. Together in this business eight years. That's a lifetime. Got stabbed on a drug bust. Helluva' way to go. Left behind two kids. And Moira, poor old Moira. Something of a beauty. His prized wife. Loved everything about her. She struggles for money now. Two young kids and a small job. Every now and then I help. Slip some money under her door. Hope she buys herself a pretty dress. Such a waste of good looks. Always made a fuss of me. " You need a good girl". Fed me. Sam dies. She can't even look at me. Maybe she blames me. I do. Helluva' way to go. 
Leave the station glum. Thinking of the past now. Bad decision. Not a great past. Filled with death and lies. No family, no Christmas dinners. Just me and Amy. Amy the parrot. Beautiful creature. Likes classical music. Bach or Vivaldi. Doesn't say anything. Except " Give us a kiss, give us a kiss!". Occasional woman in my life. Nothing more than casual. It's the way I like it. Nothing to tie me down. No one to disappoint or upset should anything happen to me. Simple life. Figure I'll work on this baby case tomorrow. No point starting now. Probably in some motel. APB gone out. Nothing more to do. 

Get home and Amy screeches. Dumb bird. Find something frozen and heat it up. Take a long, cold shower until the water runs out and there's just a brown, pissy trickle. Sit at the coffee table, eating and watching Tv. Finish and roll up a cigarette. That goddamn succulent paper, dry tobacco. Fill my lungs. Hold for ages. Impossibly long. Breathe out. Repeat. You're half-way to bliss.