Lives like threads, relationships like tangles and lies like knots before the tear; nothing is as it seems.
It was on every local station that quiet Wednesday morning. The neighbor's dog finally stopped yapping and I was eating a fine piece of toast with my mother's homemade peach marmalade. The stories were all the same: a body washed up on the south bay. Another man took a fall off of the Golden Gate and every news broadcast told it the same. Suicide was shoved down everyone's throats and already the media was crying and begging for people to raise awareness to the fact that the Golden Gate was the second most used suicide bridge in the world. Already activists were rallying to change the bridge's gruesome image and to promote safety.
I let the crumbs of my toast fall to my lap as I flipped through the channels, searching for something that might actually accelerate my heart rate. I was immensely bored. Lately my work had been so simple it was almost degrading. Day after day I was called for alleyway stabbings, home robberies and idiot gun carriers shielding themselves in a disguise of self-defense. Day after day I proved what they all had suspected with nothing more than a nod of my head. Nothing changed. It was almost a full year since I had closed the case on a true mastermind of a murderer- an arrogant con artist who thought he could match my intellect. Now the city's criminal's were uninspired and so was I.
I wasn't surprised when I got the call later that afternoon from a constable with a hunch that there was something fishy about the Golden Gate jumper other than his corpse's fishy smell. The woman who called was a policewoman with only just enough work in investigation to still be considered green in the field. I always got calls from the patrol officers who were thrown into the crime scenes by promotion and seemed to constantly need a second set of eyes.
However, I was also often asked by police with more experience. One particular detective favored me singularly and was rarely without me by his side at a crime scene. No one could blame him. Despite all of his appearances and his high titles, Inspector Deforge was not a very perceptive man. I never did mind if he took the credit for a case. After all, I didn't even have the rank of an Inspector. I was just an agent in the personal crimes division with a reputation and brain.
The constable had asked me to meet her at the scene of the crime, where the body had washed ashore. However, the place the body washed ashore was not technically the scene of the crime if it was, after all, a true crime. First rookie mistake: searching for clues in the wrong places. Instead I drove straight to the station where the body was being identified and prepared for autopsy. The constable could wait for me until after I had seen what was left of the waterlogged corpse. I didn't even bother to tell her I would be late.
Although I doubted the case would be worth any more than a nod, I was grateful to finally have one.