The Memoirs of a Forgotten Man
Part Two
3 Months Prior
I'm used to darkness. Even though it so often leaves its calling card, inscribed with the nightmares of so many innocents. Those are the nightmares that I am called to investigate. I don't know how I ended up in this line of work. Perhaps I fell into it, perhaps it fell upon me. But it's the line of work that I am in, and it seems to suit who I am.
I don't blame the darkness – I don't hold it responsible. But terrible things tend to happen when the darkness descends upon the Earth. Is it a shield, a fog of sorts that acts as permission for man's inner demons to show themselves? I don't know. I have thought about it, many times. But I'm no Psychologist. Whilst I have an understanding of the behaviours of the people that cross my path, my comprehension falls down when asked to explain why they do what they do. I don't know why people do what they do. I don't even understand why I do what I do.
My job isn't all doom and gloom. I am out in the daylight. I still remember what the sun looks like. And I quite like it – reminds me that I am alive. And that's not such a bad thing to remember. But the crimes I am called upon to investigate usually happen late. Like I said – under the cover of darkness. So I have learned to live with it. I have made my peace with it. The darkness that is, not what happens under her watchful eye. And that's just it – she sees all. I know she does. And sometimes - if you ask correctly – the darkness will reveal what she knows, what she has seen. Perhaps that is why I am good at my job. Perhaps that is why I get results. I have learned how to ask the right questions to the presence that hangs over us, watching, but rarely interfering.
This particular evening started like most of the rest of them. The trip to the station to start my shift. Looked over my notes on a cold case that just crossed my desk. Not a high priority I was told. Time had dissolved our requirement for closure it would seem. Not for those who knew the victim, I'm sure. Did their pain ever go away, did it ever leave them? That feeling of not knowing, for a lot of people it becomes like a cancer eating away at them. I wouldn't be surprised if that mystery – that not knowingness – had killed off more people than the actual murderers crawling our streets. All these years, waiting, praying, pleading, for an answer or sense of closure. Would it heal their pain? I'm not really sure, but perhaps it would help stop it spreading any further. Grant them some peace before they themselves pass from this world.
I made a couple of phone calls and read up on the notes left by the original detectives. The usual procedure. It's hard to crack a cold case, especially after all these years. Unless by some miracle DNA was left at the scene, and it was collected and it was securely stored all these years, then it remained a long shot. And at some point I was expected to locate and speak with the victim's family. Put them through this nightmare, yet again. Whilst knowing that there was probably very little I could do to crack the case – and that was my nightmare. No matter how detached you try to remain to these matters, an element of them permeates you – embeds itself into your core. You care about these cases, despite all appearances saying otherwise. You deal with emotions everyday. Real, raw emotions. Not fabricated Hollywood ones. Ones that can hit you like a freight train – knock you for six and sit you flat on your arse. Metaphorically speaking. But we bottle all of that up. At least I do. And I know most of my colleagues do. You can't last in this job if you allow it to get to you so much the public notices it. So we plug it up, we push it down, we bury it under whatever we can get our hands on. Usually alcohol – it's legal, and socially acceptable. And occasionally officers crack under the pressure. They see too much, more than the tolerance level can comfortably accommodate. And they break.
But as was so often the situation, this old case that had been crying out for some attention would need to be put aside, yet again. How many times had that occurred in the past? How many detective's hands had this case's folder been placed into just to have it pushed to the side for another day and another time? Now something new had just found its way to my desk. These are the cases I tend to work. The past has a tendency of hanging around, just like that cold case. It seems to need – sometimes even demand – resolution. Not necessarily answers. Sometimes we just never get any answers. But there is a difference between not knowing and not understanding. Sometimes I think the past exists for one purpose only – to teach us how to find peace. And like all my lessons, I'm still learning this one.
But now I had more pressing matters to see to. Just in, and I'm the man the case found its way to. From the past to the present. From the old to the new. The very new it would seem. The brief explanation I received as I headed to my car to make my way to the scene was that this crime involved a child. A very young child. I didn't have to hear any more, I knew already that this was going to be a difficult case. Ones involving children always were. I guess I will be bottling up and suppressing even more emotions from this one.
I got to the car, sat and breathed deeply for a moment. Darkness my old friend, what do you have in store for me tonight?
(To Be Continued)
This fiction is my own work, written for Steemit
Image Credit: Unsplash.com
Thank you for taking the time to read this. If you liked it please give an upvote, and feel free to leave a comment. Follow Me