Ms. Bethany West

It was about 2 in the morning when I got the call.

Another murder. Gees, can't the killers give it a break? Always at the most inconvenient times. But then, I'd think that those who are killed would feel the same way (even if my reason is that I don't want to be up all night at the scene and theirs' is that they'd much rather be alive.).

Hardly anyone who is killed wants to die. This is a pretty basic rule when it comes to nearly any murder.  The variable is why they were murdered.

Many times it's a crime of passion. These aren't the easiest to solve if only because the killer would most likely not kill the person any other time. But yet, in another way they are simple. A man is found, covered in blood, over the dead bodies of his wife and the man she was caught in a precarious situation with. Open and shut case.

Now, premeditated; that's my kinda case. There's more to it than what meets the eye. It takes some effort; it's a challenge. Even if there is more paperwork.

Most of the cases I'm called in for are challenges. On those occasions when the cops can't figure it out, they need some expertise. Expertise I and the others who are a part of SCIT have. Most of it isn't something you can train for in the academy. Comes naturally, like talent perhaps. Sure, I went through the academy when I was in my early twenties, after college (majored in Criminal Justice, of course). Graduated top of my class, was the rookie cadet, and by sheer luck caught the eye of a senior SCIT officer.

Sure, I'm bragging, but it's something I'm proud of. Something great that I'm a part of. They don't let just anyone into SCIT.

And, it's not bad money either.

I yawned into the phone wedged between my shoulder and ear, while I pulled on some jeans.

"Sorry, boss," I said.

"Late night?"

"More like early morning, I'd say."

He chuckles and teases me good-naturedly. "Well, you can complain about it later, Beth. We need you up here, ASAP. Got to examine the body and get it cleaned up because morning. Don't need parents complaining about what their kids saw while on the bus."

"You got it, Boss," I hang up, yawning again, and stuff my cell in the back pocket of my Levi's. Throw on a sort of suit jacket over my camisole, gather all my dark hair up in a clip, and I survey myself in the mirror momentarily.

Meh, it'll have to do. Appearances aren't everything, but I feel I have to at least try.

A girl my age, without even a boyfriend... I was told that I'm a knock-out, but the man who said so was a drunk in a bar where I was looking for answers on a then-current case. I don't know. Well, I can't wait forever, ya know. And if I meet Mr. Right at a murder scene, so be it. Heck, we might have something in common. As long as he ain't dead, that is.


The End

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