“Don, one more question.”

“Yes?”

“Can you say ‘Hi’ to ya Mutha for me?” a muffled pop dispersed through the triple-decker. A large hole surrounded by a powdering of gunpowder appeared on the shoulder blade of the man. His lifeless body was hurled forward by the force of the round and hit the dirty wood floor with a dull thud.             

“Hey, Scottie, what do you see?” asks my understudy/partner as he stands next to a dead body slumped on the side of the Reflecting Pools of the Christian Science Plaza. 

“Guy was shot in the chest, probably a good ten feet away. He was probably moved down here post mortem. As far as we know, no one heard a gunshot or saw a muzzle flash. The forensic guys should be able to find details about this.” 

My job is always the same. Some dork gets murdered, you go to the scene, make some remarks about the body. None of which really matters as the forensic team does most of the work. Then you look for suspects, maybe get shot at blah, blah, blah.  I really only do murders. I like to call it “Murders and Executions,” kinda like “Mergers and Acquisitions.” Technically I’m a homicide detective, not a “Strictly Murder Detective,” but if you get assigned to a hit and run, the captain probably isn’t elated with the cherry bombs you planted in his private toilet. 

It’s amazing no one got a detailed account of this. It was at one of the most popular tourist attractions in the whole city, someone should’ve at least gotten a glimpse. But the only thing anyone said was that a man in a black Adidas tracksuit and beany put down a large workout bag, and walked into the night. How did anyone not immediately conclude that the guy was a criminal? He could’ve been wearing a sign that said “I’m a murderer,” and no one would’ve been the wiser. 

“Hey Scott, the heck is this?” states Mark, the understudy. He stands over a photo of a man of about twenty with what looks to be his girlfriend

The phone on my desk rings twice before I can pick it up. 

“Detective Gerano”

“Detective, we found out who the guy in the photo is, and where he lives.”

“Great, let me get my notebook,” I open my desk and dig through the gum wrappers, coasters, cards, and trinkets until the leather binding of my notebook brushes by hand. Even though I consistently use the thing, it always finds a way to get lost in this jungle of a desk. 

“Got it,” I reply as I flip open the notebook and pull a pen out of my pen carousel. 

“Alright, his name is Donnie Kelly. He lives in Chelsea.”

“Alright, I’ll be over there.” I put the phone on the receiver with a click. I slide my Desert Eagle out of my leather holster. It’s important to make sure everything is smooth, never want something to fail when someone’s shooting at you. After reholstering the behemoth of a pistol, I remove the equally large suppressor. Even with this thing, the Deagle nearly makes me go deaf. Sticking my old pipe cleaner thingamabob down the suppressor, I clear out the schmuck in it. Just can’t be too careful with these things. After making sure that there was hardly any chance that my mobile artillery wouldn’t fail, I closed up my desk’s office gear and went down to the parking garage. 

It’s an experience; driving from the nice part of Boston to Chelsae. It’s like a slow decline into the Third World. It starts out with hip neighbourhoods or historical landmarks flocked with tourists, to almost Detroit. 

When I parked the car in a questionably maintained alleyway, it was already night. After locking the car, I hea-I better go make sure that the car is secure. After putting all of the valuables out of sight, and locking and unlocking the doors multiple times just to make sure that they work. I leave the alleyway-screw it, I’m checking again. 

After triple checking, I finally leave the alleyway and reach the address. I’d knock, but I’m not sure if the door would hold up. I’d also try to use the intercom, but that might give me tetanus and electrocute me. Guess I’ll have to resort to the splinter trap. 

Putting on my thick leather gloves, I push open the door. The handle is effectively useless because the thingy that keeps the door closed is gone. Walking up the creaky steps of a stairwell lined with chipped peeling paint, I pick up on the scent of what I hope is just weed. If I hear that there was a meth lab explosion in Chelsea, I guess I’ll know where it happened. This place is a dump. 

I lightly knock on the door, in fear of it disintegrating. Quickly a man opens the door. He’s the same as the one in the photo. He looks tired like he was up later than usual. 

“Who the heck are you?” he grunts. 

“I’m a cop, I have some questions,” I show him my credentials, and he invites me into his living room. I take the seat on a stained fabric couch, I’m just not going to think about how it got these. He takes a seat on a dingy leather easy chair. He lights a splotchy cigarette from a weathered box of West Whites and takes a long drag.

“What do you want to know?” he spits out through the side of his cigarette. 

“We found this picture next to a dead body,” I hand his picture to him. He chokes up on his cigarette and shakes his sickly hair out of his eyes. 

“How the heck did this get there?” he asks looking up.

“Dunno, that’s what I’m here to find out,” I lock my fingers together and lean forward.

“Look buddy, some bum probably stole my photo, it probably fell out of my wallet.” He shrugs and stuffs it in his pocket. 

“Buddy, that’s police evidence, ain’t yours anymore,” I extend my hand with an upward-facing palm. 

His shoulders rise up in irritated dismissal. 

“Fine, have the photo. Can’t prove crap with it, it’s not like it shows me shooting the guy and dumping his bloated corpse.” He stuffs his hand back in his faded jean pocket, retrieves the now crumpled photo, and flicks it into my open palm. 

He’s right, this photo isn’t enough evidence for an arrest. Heck, not even enough for a search warrant. And I won’t be able to prove he shot. But then again, I don’t think I ever said the victim was shot. 

“True, I can’t prove any of that.”

“So will that be all?” He takes a short drag and reclines. 

I can’t get a search warrant. Without that, I’ll never find sufficient evidence to arrest him. And if I can’t do that, he’ll be running around the streets, doing god knows what. I only have one more way to stop him. 

“Actually, you know what?”

“Yes?”

“Don, one more question.”