Page 7 of Carter

Jericho stayed married to some prick in California for like fifteen years because he thought it’s all he was worth. He’s finally seeing straight. Thank fuck.

Hollis is a drug addict and though he is a good person, he really fucking struggles. Jericho and I pay most of his bills because the last thing we need is for him to be on the street. Which is where he ends up sometimes anyway. He still lives in California, where we’re all from. Sometimes I wish he was closer. Sometimes I think it’s good he’s far away.

And me? I’ve got a laundry list of issues that I won’t begin to get into. I know it, but what’s the point in dealing with them? I’m surviving. Doing my job. Living. Making sure my brothers are good. Solving cases—hopefully. What else do I need?

I sip my coffee while I respond to emails. There are some reports in here that I’ve been waiting for, so I print them out so I can cross reference them to what we have. It’s easier to see this on paper than it is to do on the computer. This split screen shit is for the birds. I need paper in front of me, with pens and highlighters and sticky notes.

I finish my coffee before I place any papers on my desk, not wanting to risk it. Can’t be known as the fuck up in the office who ruins case files, because no… not everything is digital yet. They’re still working on it and backed up like everything else, with promises to hire more people.

Sure.

It’s a surprise I got this job with all the complaints about funding. But that’s why I went for it. I knew it was one in a million to get a position like this. I’m getting too old to be out on the streets, fighting crime. That’s what the rookies are for.

After tossing my paper cup into the trash, I grab the stack of folders from my bottom drawer. The two on the top go with the reports I just printed, so I get those organized before moving them aside. One is a hit and run. The other a break-in.

The three files that are left, I need to dig through next. I haven’t found a good process yet. Right now, I’m going through about five files at a time and seeing what I can find. Maybe it’s best to focus on one, dig deep, see where it goes. I’m not there yet though, because nothing has stuck out that much.

It’s hard to prioritize murders. They’re all important. They all deserve justice. So, right now, getting eyes on as many as I can seems like the right thing to do.

I quickly flip through the one on top, the photos of the victims’ smiling faces are clipped to the left flap. Desiree and Bernard Utler.

Break in. Double homicide—a husband and wife. Kid was at a sleepover, thank the fucking Lord. The case is from six years ago. The two listed witnesses have moved to Italy, so that’ll be time-consuming.

I put a note on the top to find the best time to call them, move it aside, and grab the next. The photo on this one is a mugshot. Doesn’t mean he deserved to die. Jasper Thomas. Eighteen years old.

Shooting. One dead. Two others injured. Drug deal gone wrong. These always hit close to home because I can’t help but wonder if Hollis will be a victim of this one day.

I move it aside and grab the last folder.

Victim was twenty-six. Ryan Kinsley. Stabbing. Wrong place; wrong time. He’s smiling in his photo, and there’s something about it that has my chest tightening. He has one of those smiles that make even the grumpiest of people, like myself, feel it. His hair is dark, almost black. Unruly and curly, but in a fun way. His eyes are so blue they look almost crystal. There’s a five o’clock shadow on his face and a dimple on either side of his cheeks.

I shake my head and flip through a few pages, pausing when I see another photo of Ryan and another man—his boyfriend, Carter Evans.

The guy from the bar.

Chapter four

Carter

“Who would like to start today?”

The same six words spoken at six o’clock on the dot every Tuesday and Friday.

You ever wonder what’s going on in the world at the exact moment as you? It’s more than you think. Good stuff. Bad stuff. Great stuff. Terrible stuff. And everything in between.

People are being born. Getting promotions. Graduating. Sleeping. Working. Fucking.

Dying.

“I will,” I say, lifting a hand but keeping my gaze on the tiled floor that looks dirty no matter how many times it's cleaned.

There are sixteen of us tonight, mostly the usuals, but a few new people.

“Thank you, Carter,” Tim says.

He’s the group leader, which has always sounded a bit culty to me, but I guess that’s what we are, right?

Cult; a group or sect bound together by veneration of the same thing, person, ideal, etc.