The Only Time a Chilidog is a Bad Idea.

He shuffled his feet as he walked across the hard wood floor. The situation was always the same, the closer he got the more his stomach wrenched.  That chilidog he had for lunch didn’t seem like that great of an idea. 

He always looked at the pictures.  In every house the pictures told the real story, not the story he was about to see.  The pictures told about summer vacations, birthday parties, moms and dads, children and pets.  The story he was about to see, about to photograph, told the final story. 

His walk continued.  The old phrase “dead man walking” made his stomach turn again.  He wasn’t the dead one, he was alive and this was his job.  This was his way to pay the bills, feed the kids, and buy all the things he deserved.  Was it worth it?

The hallway was silent.  The house had been cleared of people so that he could do his job.  It was a one-man job.  Sometimes on a big case he had help but the budget just couldn’t afford another full time employee.  The silence helped him work, helped him complete his arduous task.

His pace had slowed to a crawl.  He never knew what to expect.  He simply got the call and visited the scene.  Took his pictures and left. 

The officer had said it was the last door on the left.  It was a long hallway, but he was approaching the scene.  He took one last deep breath, calmed his nerves.

The scene took his breath, and he lost his chilidog.