I remember her face. The way her deep green eyes stared off into the distance, but they weren’t looking at anything. The wind blew her hair from around her neck back to the ground, revealing a tattoo. She’d been dead for at least four hours and she’d clearly been killed. We examined her body and the surrounding area for evidence. We never found anything, never found the perp.
Some people in this line of work eventually get used to it; they grow hard and desensitized to the atmosphere. Each atmosphere new but they all have the same smell, same walls plastered in blood, floor carpeted with bodies and evidence that we aren’t the only ones who have become desensitized. However, I never could harden like that. Maybe it’s a good thing; maybe I’ve held onto my human side-my compassion. But it doesn’t help you when you’re staring at a beautiful, dead woman and your tears threaten to contaminate the evidence. You have to harden up and get tough for the betterment of society. Us detectives, we have to become hard and mean to keep the world innocent and lovely for everyone else.
I don’t remember what got me in this line of work. I used to think it was my sense of justice, my need to keep the streets clean and homes happy. My desire to keep schools safe and children smiling; some of those same children that will grow up and be the very victims I find or the perpetrators that I only sometimes do.
I sit and I think about my life and what I’ve done. With every closed case you find comfort, you feel happy. You feel like you’ve made a difference. But there’s always another perp, always another man waiting to kill. You never really can clean the streets.
I remember her face. I remember her deep green eyes staring off into the distance, but not looking at anything. The wind blew her hair from around her neck and back to the ground, revealing a tattoo; ‘Lucky’. I remember a tear running down my cheek as I thought, “How ironic.”