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Working on the force for nearly thirty years made Peter like that. He learned to keep to himself when it was the right time, to work as part of a team even though he hated it, and to be a forceful man of authority. This lead to cases being solved -- most of the time -- and a clean record to retire with. In six months he'd be just another picture on the wall with all of the other former men of law. At his desk, he sighed at the thought. He looked forward to retirement, but it saddened him that he had no one to go back to.
Yep, he thought. I'm just the stereotypical police detective like you see in the movies. Overworked, under fucked, and dying alone.
Shifting in his seat, he gulped down the rest of the coffee in his cup. The bitter sludge made him grimace as he swallowed, but he had been up most of the night and needed the extra boost of caffeine. This case wasn't going to solve itself.
Helena Silverman, 28, born right here in town. Her record was clean, even after she had moved away. Her father was unknown, her mother Amanda Silverman passed away of natural causes when Helena was 18.
Okay, Peter thought. So how is this any sort of motive to kill an old man?
There was a knock on the office door. Peter grunted his permission to let the person enter.
Officer Merandina stepped inside, holding a vanilla colored folder to his chest.
"I've got some more information on the Silverman family, sir," he said, his brown eyes wide. Peter suppressed a chuckled to himself. The guy looked like a deer caught in the headlights of an oncoming car. He wondered if Merandina always looked like that.
"Bring it here," Peter said, clearing a space for the folder on his cluttered desk.
Merandina stepped up to the desk and plopped the folder down, sending dust to go flying throughout the cigarette scented air. The detective opened the file, first noticing the wallet sized photo of a young boy. He looked to be no more than thirteen-years-old, with golden hair and bright green eyes. His smiled was crooked, making him look cocky, and his eyes said, "Don't fucking mess with me."
"Tough looking kid," Peter muttered.
"That's Jeremy Silverman, Helena's older brother," Merandina replied, leaning over the desk to see the photo. "He was kidnapped about eighteen years ago."
Peter scanned over the file, finally realizing that that case had never been solved. Jeremy had never been found.
"That poor family," he sympathized. "To lose a child like that."
He thought to himself, If I had been on the case, I would have found him. The sudden thought made him huff and he knew he shouldn't think of himself as any sort of superhero. To do so would be cocky.
"There's more," Merandina ran out of the office and came back in, a new folder in his hands. He tossed it over Jeremy's folder. "The autopsy report just came back in. Mr. Chase didn't die from loss of blood."
Peter cocked an eyebrow, curiosity striking him. "No?"
Merandina shook his head. "Nope. He died from a heat attack. Although, even if the ticker crapping out hadn't killed him, he would have died from blood loss."
"I still don't see how Helena Silverman would have any motive to kill this guy," Peter huffed, furrowing his eyebrows and leaning back in his seat. He was exhausted.
Merandina sat at the corner of the desk and leaned over to flip the new folder open. "Look at the examiner's photo."
Peter leaned forward and his breath left him in a slow hiss. He couldn't believe his eyes.
It was the old man laying naked on the autopsy table, nothing but a blanket to cover his private section. Carved deep into the flesh across his chest was a name.
H-E-L-E-N-A.
"Jesus Christ Almighty..." Peter trailed off. He closed the folder and clamped his eyes shut, but it didn't work to block the image from his mind.
"Detective Waters," a husky voice broke through Peter's thoughts. It was the chief of police, now standing in front of his desk. Officer Merandina stood erect, looking like a dog waiting for his treat. "Have you heard the news?"
"That our killer has a thing for carving? Yeah, I've seen the picture."
"Not that," the chief shook his head and crossed his arms over his chest. "Fingerprints came back from the scene. It seems that our killer has struck before, nearly thirty years ago."
Peter raised his eyebrows. "Any chance that we can catch this guy?"
The chief shook his head again. "Nope. He wasn't even caught back then. But that's not the most interesting part."
"Well," Peter leaned forward, his elbows on the desk. "What's the interesting part?"
"The crime was just a random attack, the victim survived..." the chief took a breath in. "The victim was a pregnant Amanda Silverman."
"Amanda Silverman?!" Peter was dumbfounded, his mouth gaping open.
"That's right," the chief nodded. "Helena's mother."
Peter shot up and out of his desk, grabbing his jacket and storming out of his office.
"Detective!" The chief shouted after him. "Where do you think you're going?"
"Outside," Peter hollered back. "After news like that, I need a fucking cigarette!"