"Sir, the press are outside. They want to talk to someone about  the 'Mirror Case'."

Detective Burrows sighs deeply, looking hopelessly across his cluttered desk. It has been a full week and the case is as mysterious as the day of the shooting. Burrows has been to the crime scene at least twenty times, and even investigated the building across the street where the shot was fired. Nothing. Not a damn thing except that note.

Further fuel for the press that the Los Angeles Police force can't do their job.

Burrows finally looks up at the junior admin assistant, not smiling, not frowning. His worn, hazel brown eyes simply staring up at the messanger, without a satisfactory answer.

"I'll be there in five minutes..."

"Yes sir." The young man is quick to relay the message to the eager reporters outside, slamming the door shut behind him.


"I'm here with Detective Burrows, the chief investigator on the shooting of Daniel Waldrick in a local Los Angeles deli. Mr Burrows, where are we at with this case right now?"

A glamorous blonde haired reporter allows her teeth to sparkle at the camera before thrusting a microphone into Burrows face, the ears of the nation hinging on his every word. Burrows clears his throat, adjusts his bege trenchcoat so that it fits neatly onto his shoulders and speaks slowly.

"I can assure you that myself and the rest of the force are working around the clock to apprehend the shooter and everything possible is being done to get to the bottom of this delicate case."

The blonde reporter takes the microphone back, quick to grill an already agitated and dejected detective. "Today is the funeral of Daniel Waldrick, friends and family have gone to a private location to pay their final respects. It's been over a week since the murder, are there any ideas as to who may have killed him?"

Feeling heat under the collar, the detective again adjusts his trenchcoat. "We have nothing further to add at this time."

"Are there any suspects? Anyone in custody?"

"I'm afraid I can't disclose that information."

"Detective Burrows, do you have any update for us?"

It was a good question, a question he had only one answer too, even though he is remiss to admit it on live television. He couldn't allow them any more ammunition against the LAPD. It just wouldn't do.

"We have one lead we're following up on, but I am unable to talk about it any further. That's all I can say, I'm afraid."

Without giving her another chance to question him, the detective walks away, a smatter of light and flashing following him down the steps away from the LAPD building. He keeps walking, ignoring the screams and shouts of eager reporters wanting to be heard and darts around the corner to an isolated alleyway, where he takes a moment to breathe.

He'd lied on live television. There were no leads. He had nothing. Whoever the killer was, they'd been precise and thorough enough to remain anonymous covering up everything incriminating.

All relations and friends of Waldrick hadn't known of any of Daniel's grudges nor did they know anyone who'd want to kill him.

The whole event seemed so random, and almost suggested that the victim had just been in the wrong place at the wrong time, though Detective Burrows refused to allow the notion to cross his mind.

He leans against a solid brick wall, continuing deep breathing and slowing down the excessive beating of his aging heart. He knew he couldn't keep fobbing people off like this. He needed something concrete, something definitive. Any kind of lead to get this case back on track.

Burrows pulls the crumbled up note from out of his pocket, and looks at it from every angle, hoping to ascertain something new, hoping to see it in a new perspective and gain a sudden flash of inspiration.

Seven Years

Right now, as it is, there is no other way of reading it. The note is what it is.

Another sigh. Another minute goes by with nothing new to contribute.

"Was it really just bad luck?" He asks himself.


Burrows stops staring at his shoes, runs a hand through his wavy dark hair, and then fumbles around his trenchcoat pocket.


After pulling out his mobile phone, he is quick to answer, but waits a while before a reply.

"Meet me. I have the answers to your questions."

"Answers? What questions? Who is this?"

"If you want to know who killed Daniel Waldrick, meet me."

"Meet you where? Did you kill him? Who is this?"

"Here's the address."

The detective scrambles around in his pocket with his free hand, looking for a pen to write down the directions of the meeting place. He hasn't quite finished writing everything down on the back of his hand when the phone clicks and the caller goes off the line. The detective pauses, clearing his mind to try and remember the final details of the address.

But also within the pause, he cannot help detecting something familiar about that voice. Where had he heard it before?


The End

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