Far Horizons: Tales of Sci-Fi, Fantasy and Horror. Issue #11 February 2015 | Page 59

I knock on it to get one out and light it, keeping one
hand up because wind gets stronger. I breathe out,
and grey smoke dissolves, revealing the black canvas of the night sky with tiny stars scattered all over
it. Wind blows the smoke back into my eyes and I
wince because it stings. It irritates me and yet calms
me down. While I cross the street between the two
buildings, there is no case. There is no body in the
morgue or the evidence in the locker. There are no
papers in my jacket. There is just me and the smoke.
My phone starts ringing just as I throw the cigarette
out and enter the station.
“I believe we talked about this last week,” the familiar, angry voice returns me to harsh reality, filled
with the stuffy air of the police station and coughs
and distant chatter of the people in the lobby. “I
don’t see your report on my table, Detective-Inspector.”
“There’s been another body, sir,” I respond calmly. The call has taken me by surprise, but I’ve been
through this talk already, as I’ve just been reminded
none too politely.
“And what are you doing to prevent more victims,
exactly?”
“Analysing the evidence, sir, standard procedure.”
“Well, I have to talk to the press, Detective,” the voice
on the other end fills with even more anger the calmer it hears me become. There’s also contempt in it
and a slight hint in abridging my rank. “If the report
isn’t on my table by tomorrow morning, I’m putting
others on this case, and don’t think you can get off
this lightly.”
I am tempted to make him do it right now, give this
nuisance to anyone else, so that I just can stop feeling so indifferent, but the call ends in beeps, leaving
my relief unpoured. It’s like a lump in my throat. I
hold the phone by my ear a little while longer even
though it’s gone silent and look around cautiously.
No one is interested in me, everyone is busy filling in
papers and listening to complaints. I exhale slowly

and put the phone back into my pocket. It’s time to
start writing that report, even if I know there will be
hardly anything to type after the title.
There are several people sitting on the first floor,
either from the night shift or running late with
reports. They look up as I enter, some of them wave,
but all of them briefly. Everyone has their own cases
to worry about. I press the button on my computer
and go fetch a cup of coffee while it loads. This night
is far from ending.
As I return to my table, I hear wind picking up. I
look out of the nearest window and notice the stars
have disappeared behind rainclouds. If the strength
of the wind is anything to judge by, the night promises a downpour.
The first lines of the report come out easily. I gather
all the facts I have on the case in one pile. There isn’t
much - locations of deaths don’t match, no profile
on the serial killer can be created, no connection, no
motive, no murder weapon. Nothing, nothing, nothing. The whole process is like sifting through sand
over and over again and finding no gold. I even feel
as if I have sand in my mouth crunching between my
teeth. Irritation fills me again. I pick up my coffee
mug and walk over to look out of the window again.
It’s a small relief from everyday routine that I have a
window right next to my table.
Huge drops of rain start sploshing against the glass.
They are rare; they look like forced tears, sliding
down the window pain. I tou