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    Thursday, June 21, 2007

    The Detective [Part VI]

    PART Vi – Home

    For all intents and purposes, he hadn’t been home for two days. The cat was pissed. As soon as The Detective walked in the door Mr. Squigmyre showed him his ass then sauntered off, probably to pee in his shoes. The Detective picked the mail up off the floor where it landed from being shoved in the slot in the door. He needed to get a mailbox. What genius thought people wanted to walk in their door and trip on their mail?

    There were six messages on the machine. Two were automated loan scams, one was from his Mother, and the other two were from people calling him back with information about the case. He was one of those cops that’d rather have the information as soon as he could, so he gave out his home number. He used his cell phone for personal calls. Anything that went through the switchboard to his desk phone got routed to his cell when he was out. He felt bad about not giving his mother his cell number, but he always called her back and she knew that if it was an emergency she should call the precinct.

    One of the messages about the case was from a friend who’d been a Dentist in the Army. The Detective had sent him a package with the details of the case. It wasn’t something he was supposed to do, but he did it anyway. He was supposed to use the experts on retainer through the city. They’d say what you wanted, even if it wasn’t the truth. His dentist friend was a mystery nut and until now he’d not had a reason to use him. The message was simple. He wanted to meet.

    The second message concerned the china. The tea sets were all bone china. They still hadn’t found any maker’s marks on them but they were going to run the patterns by an expert at an auction house. They’d probably been picked-up at estate sales. The Detective wouldn’t be surprised if the perp had been collecting them for years. The good ones always looked ahead. If the perp had been real smart he would have paid cash and not bought them in the last few years.

    The last message was from Kris. She was calling to let him know she was sick and had switched shifts. It looked like he was staying in. He went into the kitchen and opened a can of food for the cat. Then, he poured himself two fingers of Knob Creek and picked up the phone and called his Mom.

    He fell asleep on the sofa watching a Western he’d seen a thousand times. The whiskey made the sleep come faster. Just before he completely went under he felt the familiar weight of Mr. Squigmyre jumping up onto his chest. He went deep to the warmth and the sound of the cat purring on his chest.

    [This is an experiment. I don’t know where it is going. I write it and post it with only a questionable reread. It’s about the process of hitting the keys in the most reflexive of styles. It probably will go nowhere, but we’ll find out. I have no plan. I have no outline. I have no reason. It’s still © 2007 Greg Bunch, even if it sucks.]

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