Detective Jack Waters reached for the one thing of interest to him amongst the muck of bodies around him in what used to be called a crime scene in his day. Now, it was like some kind of social gathering with a sign on the door saying, ‘If you just happen to work for the police department of Las Angeles then step right in and feel free to contaminate whatever evidence may help any of the detectives solving the fucking case.’ But, Jack didn’t really give a shit. He didn’t really give a shit that at four in the afternoon he was so drunk he could barely stand straight amongst all his lovely co- workers, which today included every forensic professional and photographer the good city of Las Angeles could muster up. They were mostly young guys barely out of college who talked more about the baseball game the night before than the actual case. There were no detectives there except for the shamed Detective Waters who just happened to be first on scene and also happened to catch quick menacing stares from just about everyone in the small apartment as he walked by, stepping over the bodies that literally covered the floor. Yes, Jack heard them whisper and saw them look as he tripped and maneuvered his way around the bodies of the unfortunate young men. But, again to the point, he didn’t give a shit. There was only one thing in the room he cared about and he was almost there.
Slowly and precisely Jack’s aged shaky rough hand reached for the fridge handle. It was obviously an older model, one that had probably been in the apartment for years, maybe decades. Jack had a faint memory of his mother having one strikingly similar. The door slowly swung open and Jack could already catch the stench of mold and half eaten Chinese food. But that was not what he was after. He was after something else, something of more imp- Fuck! Jack slammed the door grabbing the attention of the men behind him. He began pacing an mumbling curses to himself. He didn’t care. He grabbed his forehead to ease the throbbing that had begun. Jack took a deep breath and another one.. And then noticed the cabinets above the fridge. Please god, he thought. He reached up and opened them and he saw it. And with that sight Jack’s grumpy face in desperate need of a shave managed a smile. He even thought he heard himself giggle. For his eyes were brightened with the sight of a familiar friend. George Dickel #12 Tennessee Whiskey. How the hell good old Tennessee whiskey had gotten all the way to Las Angeles into some crummy apartment was a mystery to him, but he didn’t really care. Greedily and not caring what the hell the other people in the room thought of him, Jack grabbed the half drunk whiskey. He didn’t even bother with looking for a glass. He simply grabbed the bottle and stumbled onto a decaying chair at a moldy sad excuse for a kitchen table. Quickly enough, Jack had the cap off and was literally guzzling the bottle down and had no intention of stopping. The whiskey just seemed to swish down the bottle, enter his mouth and go to some unknown always hungry place deep inside himself. He felt the deep burn down his throat and into his stomach. Suddenly, with each passing swallow he felt just a bit calmer. His hands stopped shaking and slowly the worries around him began to disappear. There were no bodies. There was no crime scene. No forensic guys, who all now stared with wonderment upon the grizzly- adams detective who sat in the middle of a murder investigation getting drunk. More than drunk. This was something else. Jack suddenly stopped thinking about things he didn’t want to think about. With that disappearing drink went the bad war memories of young friends screaming, with that drink went the misery of his job, and with that drink went Jack’s greatest shame of all. But then, well then it was gone. Not only the drink ,which Jack slammed on the table, but with it went the calm. Now, Jack’s mind got hit hard with the same things that brought upon the drink before. The memories of war that dead bodies always seemed to initiate, the misery of the job and people who surrounded him. Suddenly Jack was thinking and worrying about things that hadn’t even occurred to him to worry about before. He thought about his ex wife and daughter and he- oh god, he thought about her. His greatest shame of all. The one thing he couldn’t take back or ever have forgiveness for. He thought about the breeze in the park that-
“Detective Waters?” Jack heard from what seemed like nowhere but was actually the detective he was told would come and take over the case. He recognized the man from work but couldn’t quite place him. Frank or Fred or something. Oh, they all looked the same these days, these young hot bloods who couldn’t shoot a gun for their lives. Jack was too drunk to remember the man or perhaps his eyes were too wet to see clearly enough. Without realizing it, Jack had began crying. God, he needed another drink.
“Detective Waters, I’m Fred Waltz. I’ll be taking over… You’re free to go.”
Fred, that was it. Jack brought up his hand to cover his face which now sobbed uncontrollably. He seriously needed another drink. The whole room stared at him, but Jack tried not to notice. Come on Waters, pull yourself together. Stop this crying, get up and leave, he thought. But he couldn’t. For the first time from his peripheral vision he actually noticed the crime scene. Four or five young guys lay spread out on the floor with a couple of automatic weapons laid out for good cause. Bloody. In fact blood lay everywhere. But Jack had seen worse than this probable drug deal gone bad judging from the style of the kids clothes and the condition of the apartment.
Jack picked himself up without looking the detective or anyone else in the eye. He looked up at the clock half fallen off the wall and saw it was almost five. Time to go home, he thought. Thank god because he definitely needed another drink. With this sudden boost of motivation, Jack stumbled quickly enough past the detective , his partner, and the forensic guys, and made it to the door. As he began his journey down the noisy and disgustingly filthy hallway he thought he heard the young detective yell “Did he actually drink all that?” but by the time Jack’s mind even had time to process this he was walking out the front door of the apartment building, hailing a cab so he could punch out and spend his last dime of the night on another drink.