Warning: This story contains harsh and vulgar language, disturbing descriptions, and adult situations. This story is not for children and they should not be allowed to read it. Consider it rated “R”.
“It’s an ongoing investigation. You know the rules or did they get slammed out of your head in that accident of yours.”
Frank had expected this reaction to his request. Detective Murphy was a by-the-book man and had never liked Frank from day one. “Ah, come on, Murphy. Quit bustin’ my balls. You know I ain’t asking for that. I just want the stuff that’s already public record.”
“Then you can get it off public record and let me do my job.” The detective argued as he logged off and locked his computer.
Frank tried to persuade the detective. “But you got the information right there in your folder. All you got to do is make some copies. I ain’t asking for much. Just a decent sized mug and known addresses.”
Detective Murphy shoved the folder into his desk drawer before slamming it shut. “And all you have to do is walk down to the clerk’s office and make a formal request. That isn’t too much either. Unless you get drunk and crash walking down the hall.”
Frank leaned in close to Murphy’s face. “Yer outta line!”
“And you’re out of luck. Now get the hell out of here before I arrest you for interference.”
Frank’s eyes shot daggers into Murphy’s before turning around and storming out of the office.
Smoke stung Frank’s eyes as the mixture of burning wood and melting plastic filled his nostrils. His mind was filled with a desperate need to find something in the fire and his heart began to race. Suddenly a piercing scream filled his ears.
Frank awoke to find himself tangled in the sheets of his bed. His body was awash in the fetid stench of cold sweat. Twisting free of the sheets, Frank set his feet on the ground only to kick an open bottle of Kesslers on its side.
“Damn.” He said, bending over to retrieve the rot-gut whiskey. “No wonder I had bad dreams. Didn’t drink enough.”
Suddenly a loud crash came from the hallway. Frank pulled his Glock 19 from its holster and grabbed a flashlight before investigating the noise. Clearing the corners of the doorway before stepping into the hall, Frank lowered his gun and light.
“Damn.” He said as he looked at the cause of the commotion. “My certificate.”
Frank bent down to pick up the remains. A broken frame partially surrounded a mottled tannish piece of paper. On it was inscribed, “Certificate of Completion awarded to Franklin Steel, Detroit Police”. A shard of glass slit the paper, severing his name in two.
“Cheap ass walls.” Frank complained as he gingerly picked up the pieces. “Can’t hold nothin’.”