Early Mourning (part of the Detective series)

"Fuck sake, you're contaminating the scene."

The old man doesn't turn his head towards the uniform who chided him. He calmly puffs his Winston, squints into the rising sun, and silently counts to ten.

"Hey. Detective," the cop continues, "If you're gonna smoke, do it on the other side of the yellow tape."

He made it to five before his temper flared along with the cherry on the end of his Winston. Without moving anything other than his arm, he flicks the half-smoked cigarette at the mouthy sergeant's chest.

"Hey! FUCK!"

"It's my scene, shitstain. Go play in traffic."

A younger detective arrives carrying two to-go cups of coffee. He swiftly steps between the two men. "Hey, hey, easy, sarge. Here. Brought you a fivebucks. Hops you like cream and sugar."

Brushing ash off his uniform shirt, the sergeant grudgingly takes the offered cup. Grumbling, he walks to his cruiser parked at the end of the alley and climbs in.

"Chrissakes, kid. That was my coffee."

"Yeah, well. You shoulda thought of that before you tried to pick a fight with the night shift lead. He's been on since midnight and this was a shit detail."

"Fucker had the stones to tell me I'm contaminating the scene."

The handsome younger, larger man raises an eyebrow.

"Fuck. Not you, too."

"I mean, cmon man. Can't you stop smoking for an hour?"

"Why? I already know what happened and who did it."

"How the hell can you say that? You just got here."

"I've been here about ten minutes."

White jumpsuited technicians walk past the two detectives, carrying large kits that look like extremely oversized tackleboxes.

"So you've solved it, have you?"

The old man winks, sniffs, and reaches into his pocket for a new smoke.

"Not another one. Just wait until we get back to the car, wouldya?"

Grizzled, grumpy, and missing his coffee, the lead detective sniffs the white paper like it's a handrolled Cuban.

"I can't believe you gave that dick my coffee. I gave you a twenty, and don't think I aint noticed you kept the change."

"Yeah, I did, because fuck you. You're an old prick this morning."

"I'm an old dick every morning, kid."

"You don't lie."

"Shit. I lie like a dog, buddy." He laughs at the joke that only he gets, and his teeth seem just a little too sharp in the dawn's light.

"So you don't know whodunnit?" The new detective glances over at the uncovered body of a twenty-something woman in the alley. Non-valuable insides of her purse lie strewn on the blacktop along parts and pieces of her that never should have been outside. He shudders in the heat that has slowly risen along with the sun.

Black flies swarm in contrast with white Tyvek-clad techs. They photograph, catalog, scrape, and collect. "Oh, guys, ignore the butt still smoldering there where Sergeant Fucknuts was standing."

The junior partner waits patiently, sipping his latte.

"You're fuckin with me, aren't you, kid? I can smell that brew. Goddamn."

"Yep. You should apologize to the sarge when we leave."

"You know I'm gonna make you take me to a Starbie's drive through, right?"

"It's your money, boss."

Sighing, a man too old to fight but too stubborn to be beaten turns to leave.

"Whoa, boss, where you goin?"

"We're done here, kid. Let's go get the bastard who did this."

"How do you know who it is?"

"Because I've arrested the motherfucker before." The old detective reaches for his lighter, inhales sweet relief from questions he doesn't want to answer, and heads back to the car.

Some things are possible to explain, but impossible to believe.