For the Daily Flash Fiction contest. |
“Hey, Doc,” Sanchez called as he entered my office. “How's tricks?” I asked as I pulled up the case file. “Same old, same old,” Sanchez sighed as lowered himself into a chair. “Your desk isn't pile as high as last time.” “Well, maybe either I'm getting organized or you're not bringing me as much to do,” I smirked. “Wouldn't that be great?” he sighed. “I got your call.” I turned my computer screen so he could see the image. “It's a match to the bullets we pulled from your victim,” I said. “Those shell casings you found at the scene were gravy on this.” “So we have another shooting with the same gun,” Sanchez shook his head. “Just when I thought I had that first one in the bag.” I was about to reply when Sanchez's phone went off. He answered while turning away from me – a habit most cops develop to make them think they have some privacy. Sanchez ended the call with a barked order. “Where's your better half?” I asked as Sanchez pocketed his phone. “Working a stabbing,” he said. “And he didn't call me to the scene?” I asked. “How rude of the boy!” “That may still happen,” Sanchez stood up and stretched. “The vic is still breathing, but not by much. It's pretty tied up. His mother's a seamstress, and her scissors were still in the vic's chest.” “That aside, ready to be impressed?” I said as I pulled up a new image. “What's that?” Sanchez squinted at the screen. “That, my dear friend,” I teased, “is what is going to close this serial shooter case for you.” Sanchez widened his eyes. “Doc, you just earned yourself dinner on me.” Word Count: 298 |