Randall: LateMature


As I look at the photos spread out on my desk I think that murderers aren’t given enough credit.  Yes, generally it’s just a deranged frenzy that brings on the murder, but on occasion it’s something more subtle.  Something almost beautiful, like an art form.  I’m not saying that murder is good, but you can see so much about a person by how they take another's life.

Sloppily and obviously they have more on their mind than just murder, these people don’t care about the process they just want to get it over with.  These people rarely even think through what they are doing, it’s impulsive.  It’s disgusting.

                But some murderers, they get the idea right.  They make it look like art and –my phone buzzes.  I look at the caller, Dispatch.  “Hart?”  Someone calls on the other line. 

“Yeah.  Speaking.”

“You’ve been reassigned to Dave Mendrick, a death at a zoo.  Get over there.”  Oh, damn.  I knew there was something I was forgetting.  I stack the photos up and put them back in their folder, I’m off this case.  Got a new boss to report to this morning, and I’m probably going to be late. 

                As I’m dashing out of the bull pen, I take a peek out the window.  Of course, traffic is terrible.  Early mornings in the city, what else could I expect?  Well, I guess my new boss won’t be all too happy with my first impression.  But if I’ve learned anything, first impressions don’t matter.  Just like my boss being unhappy, as long as the job gets done.

                After what seems like an eternity in traffic I pull up to the zoo, and step out.  A man, an angry man, is stalking towards me in a threatening way.  It seems my new boss isn’t in a good mood this morning, most likely my fault.  He looks about ready to pull his gun on me.

                “Well, hello.  I take it you’re my new— ”

                “—Where in the hell have you been!?  We’ve been here all morning, checked out the body, met the sister, and talked to the employees and you’re just getting here?  Hm, interrupting me was rude, but I suppose it is partially my fault.

                “I’m down there in seconds, boss man.  What’s the situation?”  I ask, politely, innocently even.

                “Mauled by a tiger, poor bastard.”  I’ve never checked out an animal attack in person before, could be interesting.  I grab my camera and a case of rudimentary supplies.  Gloves, swabs, evidence bags; the works.  I pull my badge out of my back pocket and throw it around my neck and begin walking.

                I show my badge to the officer standing guard at the tape and he holds it up while I duck under.  Down some stairs and into the tiger enclosure pass by two women, who I suppose are part of our little task force; then I find our guy.  “Well, that’s a dead man if I’ve ever seen one.  But what the hell were you doing in the tiger enclosure alone?”  I ask under my breath. 

                I find myself dissatisfied with an animal attack.  It’s brutal and messy.  Truly amateur, nature. 

The End

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