The words blurred into one another, every yellowed page like the one before.
Hank couldn’t read any more of the officer’s detailed scrawl. It was a 120 page report and his fatigue, both physical and mental, was preventing him from analysing another word.
What was the point of it all? he wondered. It’s not like I’ll ever find anything that hasn’t been poured over 100 times before already!
Working Cold Cases was the worst. Frustrated, Hank closed the file from 1982, and pushed it aside.
Lifting his weary frame from the chair, he grabbed his coffee mug and sloped over to bench where the brew that Matilda had put on for him earlier that day, still sat warming. Bless my wife, he thought.
As he began to pour the acrid smelling brown liquid, he suddenly stopped, slammed his mug down and turned back, looking at the table, in disbelief. Brown spots sloshed across the counter but Hank did not notice. He was already lifting the file and scanning the cover, searching frantically for what he had missed before.
In the bottom right hand corner, neatly printed in the officer’s familiar hand were two codes:
Hank began to smile. He knew what those codes meant. A hair and blood sample taken from the scene was still locked up, safe and sound, preserved in evidence.
Of course, the samples had been no good back in 1982, but this canny young officer, had thought perhaps that one day, they might be of use. And with the DNA technology they had today, they certainly would be. It was just the break they needed to finally prove their prime suspect’s guilt and Hank couldn’t wait to lock the bastard away, once and for all.
He checked the officer’s name again and said out loud, ‘Officer Neil Bromley, I could KISS you!’
By Sarah ©2018