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Sanders crossed his arms, his wide body hiding Damien’s view into the house.

He was a large man, but not strong. He was pasty white, the type of color that often accompanied bad health more than seclusion, but it was hard to tell. Sanders was at least fifty pounds heavier than when he retired. It appeared years of bad food and inactivity had taken its toll.

He was nothing like the man once spotlighted in local papers. He appeared a lot older, but not just from age. Life itself, it seemed, had taken some additional years from him as well.

“Dad,” Tobin said, stepping forward. “This is-”

“I know who he is,” Sanders said, stepping out of the house and nudging his son aside.

“You know why I’m here?” Damien asked.

“Yeah, because you sad fucks can’t find your asses with a full length mirror.”

Damien extended his hand.

“I’m Damien Hill, a cadet with the-” “I said I know who you are.”

Damien held his smile, but his eyes couldn’t hide his disdain.

“A young woman has been murdered,” Damien said. “We think-”

“Are you deaf?” Sanders asked. “I said I know.”

Damien swallowed hard and stepped toward Sanders.

“We could really use your expertise, Detective Grace.”

“Retired,” Sanders corrected.

“A police officer never really leaves the job, does he?” Damien asked.

Sanders pursed his lips. “No. Not even if he wants to.”

“My father is a great detective,” Tobin said. “The best the city has ever had.”

“I know,” Damien said. “That’s why I’m here. Unless…” He glanced back at Sanders. “Unless he’s got nothing left in the tank. Unless he was a one trick pony.”

“No, sir. He’s got plenty left to offer. He’s the most sought after security expert in the region.”

“Is that so?”

“It is,” Tobin said.

“Your son should be your publicist, Sanders,” Damien said.

“He’s a good boy,” Sanders said. “Too bad his opinion of me doesn’t extend past my yard. You can cut the crap, cadet. You’re not a good liar. I know what you think of me.”

“I’m just trying to show you the respect your badge deserves, sir.”

“I was a great detective. I wasn’t that good of a cop.

Treat me like a bag of shit. Everyone else does.”

“Dad, don’t say that,” Tobin said.

“Tobin, get the case files from my office,” Sanders said.

“All of them?” Tobin asked.

“Every single one. Cadet Hill can spend the next few hours at the station reading through them. Maybe, when he returns, he’ll come back with a little more honesty.”

“I’m not going anywhere,” Damien said, pushing his way past Sanders and into his house. “We’re going to go through these files together.”

Sanders grabbed Damien’s arm. “You don’t tell me what to do, boy.”

Damien clenched his teeth and glared at the detective’s chubby fingers wrapped around his bicep.

“I grew up with a bastard of a father, sir,” Damien said. “He was a lot more intimidating than you. So, unless you’re going to follow up that grip with a fist and a punch, I suggest you let me go before I lay you out in front of your son.”

Sanders eyes bore into Damien’s, but the young cadet didn’t flinch.
The old detective released his grip.

“You’re wasting your time here, boy,” Sanders said. “I’ve looked at the initial reports. Decker sent them to me last night. Nothing with this case links back to Mark Kent. You think hiding corpses under condemned houses is something new? In that part of town?”

“The lieutenant has every officer and cadet on the lookout for leads. He thinks one of them may be in your files or locked up in that head of yours. Either way, I’m not leaving until I’m satisfied we’ve explored every option. So, why don’t you make some coffee and let’s get started.”

Damien was surprised how quickly Sanders had lit his short fuse. He’d have to do better. There was a family mourning their dead daughter, needing answers that this former detective may be able to provide.

Most crimes that weren’t solved within forty-eight hours

quickly turned cold. He wasn’t going to let Sanders’ boulder-sized chip on his shoulder get in the way of bringing closure to Mandy’s mother and father.

“Why are you bringing me into this?” Sanders asked.

“Don’t you local yokels hand this shit off to the state agencies or FBI?”
“We’ve engaged them, but they’re busy handling issues tied to domestic terrorist chatter. In the meantime, we’re gonna gather everything we can. If they step in before we’re done, they’ll have a running start finding the killer.”

Tobin appeared from a side room carrying a cardboard file box and placed it on the floor in front of his father.

“I’ve already read your official files on Mark’s murders at the station,” Damien said, flipping off the cardboard top and glancing into the box. “Front to back and over again. Enough times I could quote it back to you.”

“Then why are you bothering me?” Sanders asked. “Because, I know your history, Sanders. The only notes you’d put into the official report were the ones that would make you look good. I want to see everything you have. All the dirty laundry you’ve kept stored away.”

“If I had any dirty laundry, as you say, why the hell would I keep it?”

“Because, bringing to justice a serial killer is your greatest achievement. You wouldn’t throw any of that away. You’d hold onto every scrap of paper that meant anything. They’re your trophies.”

Sanders huffed and looked away. “You think you know me?” he asked.

“Am I wrong?” Damien challenged.

“I kept everything in case the scales of justice snapped in half. Nut jobs like Mark get freed on technicalities time and again. I saved everything to protect this town from him, not for myself.”

“So noble.”

“Fuck you.”

Tobin appeared with two more boxes and placed them next to the first one.

“How many files are there?” Damien asked.

“Twelve boxes in all,” Sanders said.

“That’s a lot of laundry to go through. Looks like we’re gonna be here a while. Now, how about that coffee?”

“Fuck you. I ain’t your waiter.”

Damien had already grown tired of Sanders’ attitude, but when he turned to give him a piece of his mind, he saw pain in the old detectives eyes. Real pain. Like an abused dog stuck in a cage.

Damien glanced around the home. It was dirty. Dusty. Dents and dark scrapes on the walls which were never repainted. Twenty year old furniture with frayed arms, sagging seats and matted fabric.

When Sanders was in the news, Damien remembered reading about his family. He had two daughters younger than Tobin. His wife was attractive. A nurse practitioner. Yet, they were gone. There was nothing feminine left in this house. No plants or bright colors. Nothing updated for over a decade.

He wasn’t living the life of a hero, even if his son saw him as one. There were no framed pictures of Sanders’ accomplishments on the walls. No certificate of appreciation upon his retirement. No articles clipped out of the papers. No photos with other celebrities in vogue during the short time he joined the rank of noteworthy.

His walls were uncomfortably barren, as if Sanders had yet to find anything worth sharing with others. As Damien examined the ex-cop, he knew the old detective was running out of time to find something worthy to hang on the empty spaces.

Damien’s aggression toward Sanders wasn’t going to help solve Mandy’s murder and it wasn’t going to make up for what he did to Ted’s father years earlier. He’d have to find a way to tolerate the gruff detective for the sake of Mandy’s family.

As Tobin dropped the twelfth box onto the floor, a light sweat beginning to form on his brow, Damien’s cell phone rang.

The conversation was short.

Damien hung up and slid the cell phone into his pocket.

“Tobin, I need you to help me get these boxes into my car,” Damien said.

“What?” Tobin asked, panting. “But, I just got them out here.”

Sanders stood and tilted his head. “Somethings happened?” Sanders asked.

“Yes,” Damien said. “The mayor’s blonde daughter disappeared from cheerleading practice.”