The Pits


“Nice job on the Routledge case, Detective,” Myers called as Detective White shrugged his coat on. “I’ve said it once, I’ll say it a thousand times. Never known anyone to catch a killer as fast as you!”

White turned back to smile at his colleague. “Nothing special Myers, just the usual mess over in that side of town. Abused wife kills husband. We’ve heard it all before.”

“Aye” Myers replied, sitting down at his desk. “Poor bitch. Never mind, ey? See you tomorrow.”

Detective White nodded, and left the office. He did his buttons up on his long black trench coat as he descended the two flights of stairs. As he emerged from the building, he pulled his trilby down low, to guard his face from the cold winter gale. The sun was fast setting over the police station.

From a distance, the detective was nothing but a black shadow against the blinding white of the winter snow which blanketed the road. But all the locals knew who it was just from his silhouette, and the slight limp in his right leg. The story goes he got that limp from being pushed down the stairs by his ex-wife, who had a drug addiction and is still in rehab to this day. They say that’s what made him join the force. The famous Detective White. The local prison was filled to capacity because of him. Not one murderer had yet slipped from his grasp. His colleagues adored him, but yet envied him as well. No one knew how he did it. And no one ever would. Detective White was a very private man.

The detective turned the key in the lock and opened the door of his black Falcon Coupe. He got in and slammed the door behind him, making the lemon-scented air freshener which hung from the mirror swing back and forth. His breath visible in the cold air, the detective put the keys in the ignition and immediately turned on the heating. His fingers had gone numb with the old, and he flexed them to get the blood moving. He would have to wait for them to warm up before driving.





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