Captain Theodore Johnson sighed, pinching his nose and rubbing his eyebrows. He had just been handed the report of yet another murder.
He checked his watch, then looked at the stack of papers in front of him. He was supposed to be home for dinner in fifteen minutes. Sighing one more time, he looked up at the young detective standing in front of his desk.
“Krawson, you do know what time it is, yes?”
“Yes, sir. It’s five-thirty.”
“And do you maybe know what today is?”
“Er, the seventeenth, sir?”
The ceiling fan made a quiet whirring noise as neither man spoke. Johnson leaned back in his chair, feeling a sense of guilt and frustration. Today wasn’t just the 17th, it was his wedding anniversary. His 23rd wedding anniversary. He had made reservations at a resturaunt for he and his wife to enjoy a nice meal together. He was supposed to be home an hour ago, but a recent drug bust kept him at his desk slightly longer than he planned. Now he had this new development to deal with.
“Sir,” Krawson shifted uneasily, clearly not enjoying the silence, “I’m not sure what it is, but if you’re busy with something this evening that’s making you upset, well, I could fill all of out and you can sign it in the morning. Would that be alright?”
Johnson looked at Krawson, seriously considering the 29 year old detective’s offer. He knew Krawson wasn’t one to make offers he would go back on, but it was a lot of work.
“I really appreciate the offer Krawson, but do you have anything planned yourself?”
The detective’s face was blank for a few moments, and for a split second Johnson thought he saw Krawson almost smile, but it was hidden faster than it had shown itself. Johnson realized Krawson was getting ready to lie and say no.
“Well, nothing important, sir. I can put it off.”
Johnson checked his watch again. It was 5:38. Already he was going to be late for his dinner reservations, and he knew that he needed to make his decision. Either he stay at the police station and fill out the paperwork, or go home, rush getting cleaned up and dressed, and then hopefully get to the resturaunt in time for his anniversary dinner with his wife.
“Tell you what Krawson, I–”
The phone on Johnson’s desk rang. Reaching for the phone, he looked at Krawson’s face and saw that he knew what his boss was going to say. Holding the phone to his ear, Johnson spoke.
“Hello, this is Captain Johnson speaking.”
It was his wife. She was calling because she had just vomitted, and she thought she might have the flu. While Johnson felt at ease no longer having to worry about his dinner plans, he cringed at the thought of his wife’s suffering.
“Alright, honey, I understand. No, no, don’t feel bad. I was going to be late getting home anyway because something just turned up at work. Yeah, we probably weren’t going to make it. Yeah, we probably were going to try again next week anyway. Ok, honey. Love you too. Bye.”
He hung up the phone and took a new look at the detective. Krawson’s face was different than before. He had the look of realization and relief.
“I’m sure I don’t need to explain much, do I?”
“Ah, no, sir. I think I got what just happened.”
“Oh, do you now? Well, I’m still going to take you up on that offer, you know.”
Krawson’s eyes widened for a telling fraction of a second. Years in the police force had sharpened Johnson’s own abilities to catch the subtle, involuntary facial expressions people make when their mood changes.
“Ah, yes sir, of course.”
“My wife is sick with the flu, and tonight we were supposed to go out for dinner. While our dinner plans are cancelled, what kind of husband would I be if I neglected my wife in her sick state, especially considering the fact that you have offered to free up my evening?”
“I understand, sir. Go ahead and go home, then.”
Johnson stood up out of his chair and walked around his desk towards the door. He grabbed his coat and hat from the coat rack and opened up the door to his office. Just before walking out, he turned around and looked Krawson in the eye.
“Believe me, I’m not looking forward to going home and dealing with bowls of vomit and piles of tissues. If I wouldn’t catch hell for it, I would stay here and fill out that paperwork. I do appreciate you doing it, Krawson. Thank you.”
“Ah, it’s no big deal, sir.”
Johnson smiled grimly and walked out, closing the door behind him. He navigated through the maze of mostly empty desks until he made it outside. It looked like it might start raining, but fortunately he was going to be driving. As headed toward his reserved parking space, Johnson couldn’t help but think about the murder report on his desk. Even though he hadn’t gotten a good look at the details of the report, he knew everything about it already. The murders had started when he was a fresh detective, just like Krawson. For 27 years he had been witness to the horrors of the cases, and he was beginning to feel as if the killer might never be caught. At the very least, Johnson thought, this was a good opportunity for Krawson to start getting a grip on what might become his career.
Back in the captain’s office, Krawson had just sat down in front of the mound of paper. He really did not want to be doing this, but he told the captain he would. Grabbing a pen and the first piece of paper in front of him, Krawson began reading the details of the evidence that had been gathered, and began copying the information onto a blank form.
“Victim, Rosalyn Howard. Age, 34. Apparent cause of death, to be verified by autopsy.”
Krawson stopped reading and put everything down. He had been there, and he had gathered most of this information. It was all still fresh in his mind. The blood. The mess. The way the skull had been caved in. He never could have imagined that teeth could be ripped out and crushed like they were. Krawson rubbed his eyes as he imagined the pain the poor woman must have suffered. It was a level of brutal he couldn’t have possibly prepared himself for. He looked at the empty cause of death space on the form, and fought the urge to write “an axe to the face.” It would be short, sweet, and only the biggest of idiots could misunderstand what that meant.
It was too bad things didn’t work that way. Krawson had only been a detective for a few months, but he knew enough to realize that when you are connected to the justice system, you were forced to use words that were cold and impersonal. It was all so that the evidence and police reports could not be twisted and misinterpreted by lawyers in court. Of course, no matter how clearly you wrote everything down, inevtably there was going to be some kind of loop hole a lawyer could find.
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