By Quinnley Grant

“How are you solving these cold cases, Officer?” Chief Stanford lowered the report to his desk, shaking his head in disbelief.

Officer Alvin Waters scratched the back of his neck and shrugged. His observational skills had led to his interest in law enforcement, but he never imagined being recognized by the chief in his first year with a badge.

“You haven’t seen the crime scenes or interviewed a single witness. It’s impossible.”

“Well, there’s the…” Alvin trailed off with vague gestures in the direction of the report.

“What? Speak up, kid!”

Alvin jolted. “I-I just… That is… Th-The photos and interviews a-are…” He looked at his shoes with a sigh. “The e-evidence is in the r-report. I just see it differently.”

“Hmm. I guess that lisp or whatever is what’s keeping you in the records department.” Chief Stanford’s chair squeaked as he swiveled to his keyboard. “Get back to work, Officer.”

The homicide division bustled with activity as detectives came and went while officers answered phones and typed reports. The buzz thrilled Alvin, but he passed through unseen.

He descended three flights of stairs to the records department in the basement. Cold, dark steel and concrete bricks. Shelves of musty bankers’ boxes full of old files to be digitized. Stale coffee in the pot. Lonely and quiet—only two other officers tapped at their keyboards. Alvin nodded to Brad and Marsha, then took his coffee to his seat and settled in.

As much as Alvin aspired to be a homicide detective, he knew he wasn’t good enough. Ever since he’d butchered the mock perp chase at the academy, he had accepted his destiny to remain in the dungeons. A paper pusher with a license to carry. Acing the physical and written exams, medical and psychological tests hadn’t mattered. Because he couldn’t speak up when he needed to, he wasn’t fit to be even a traffic cop. No one was intimidated by a shy boy with a speech impediment, no matter how shiny his badge was.

Alvin had finished transcribing a report when the metal door creaked open.

“Waters?”

When the speaker came into view, Alvin gaped at Captain Sanchez. “Y-Yes, sir?”

Sanchez gestured for him to come, taking a lazy glance at his watch with the other hand. “Chief wants you at a fresh scene. Said you have good eyes.”

Alvin looked at Brad and Marsha.

They stared back.

“M-Me?”

Sanchez exaggerated cleaning his ear with a finger. “Do your ears work, rookie? If your name’s Waters, let’s go! Chief’s orders.”

Alvin scrambled to gather his things and follow the detective up the stairs.

The ride was fast but silent, save for the occasional chatter from the radio updating on the active scene. Alvin’s hand bounced with the car as he tried to take notes on the hit-and-run. The suspect was still in the area, and the faster they could investigate, the likelier they’d find the perp before he got away.

Just like the mock scene at the academy.

Alvin took a calming breath.

Sanchez’s partner, Lieutenant Landon, filled them in. “Perp took the turn from Sparrow about sixty, sixty-five, crashed into the parked cars here, and hit the victim. A jogger on the sidewalk.”

“A-At least eighty,” Alvin said, approaching the skid marks on the street. He tilted his head to line up with the angle of the wreckage on the sidewalk.

“What’s that?” Sanchez asked.

Alvin cleared his throat and faced him. “Th-The perp h-had to be… going at least e-eighty.”

“There’s no way.” Landon gestured to the cross street at an acute angle from the crash site. “Street’s too narrow and the angle’s too sharp to make that kind of turn that fast.”

Alvin nodded. “B-But that h-has to be what happened.” He traced the trajectory in the air. “Based on the angle o-of the skid marks a-and the… the location of the… um…” With the two older, more experienced detectives staring him down, he lost momentum. Alvin dropped his hand and shrugged.

“Who is this guy?” Landon laughed.

Sanchez shook his head. “Chief told me to bring him.” The pair turned their backs on Alvin and approached the forensics team. “What a loser.”

Alvin swallowed hard and returned his attention to the scene. He tilted and crouched to see all the details, being careful not to disturb anything as forensics removed the victim’s body. Sweat beaded his hairline. Observing a real scene, not just a photo, was more stressful than he’d expected. But maybe this was a chance to prove himself.

“Where’s the witness who saw his face?” Sanchez asked.

Conversation continued in the background while Alvin worked his way around the wreck. He followed a faint trail of blood from the perp’s car to the entrance of Sparrow Street Park.

“What?” Sanchez’s voice boomed. “That’s the scumbag who’s tried to off me three times!”

Movement in the trees caught Alvin’s gaze, but there was no wind.

“We’ll get him, Cap,” Landon said. “He’s still in the area, right?”

“Better be,” Sanchez growled. “I’ll handle this myself.” The sound of his Glock chambering echoed.

Alvin continued toward the trees, fumbling for his own weapon. He had yet to use it. His breath came in short bursts as he scanned the area for clues. Small, broken branches in the grass. No sight nor sound of birds or squirrels. Something moved in the trees again.

Sanchez entered the park from the adjacent street. Stern-faced, gun in both hands down low in front of him.

The shadow of the next tree darkened, but the cloud cover hadn’t changed. Blood dripped from the green leaves. Alvin hid behind the next trunk. A branch shook and a shotgun slipped out of the foliage. Alvin visualized its trajectory. Straight at Sanchez.

“Show yourself!” the captain challenged. “I know you’re here!”

“C-Cap—” The warning stuck in Alvin’s throat. He gulped and aimed his pistol at the shadow in the tree. “Captain, get down!”

Bang!

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Quinnley Grant enjoys a quiet, bookish life. Writing and reading have been her constant companions since childhood. She aims to share hope, God’s Truth, and biblical values through her stories. In the spare moments not devoted to literary pursuits, Quinnley enjoys puzzles and spending time with loved ones.

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