They said I’d get used to the coffee. It’s been 27 years, 4 months, and 19 days. Sometimes I think the sargeant sticks a dead mouse in the machine. Not that anyone here in Homicide would notice. Coffee, doughnuts, and missing person reports. Through the wrecked miniblinds the leaves are turning, and I’m turning it in four days from now. Uncle Sam’ll take care of the autumn of my life.

Three days. There’s a woman in my office screaming. Family troubles, sister missing, husband a creep (aren’t they all? Ask my ex) and paperwork has to be done, interviews made, and all that.

That’s funny. He’s not much of a gardener, and my notes say “The guy couldn’t raise kudzu with a forklift” from his sister-in-law. Not according to his azaleas; They’re spectacular. The rest of the yard could use some work though.

Two days. The sargeant denied the dead mouse rumor someone started. I can hang on through Friday.

It’s Thursday. Something is bugging me about this one. One more day. Maybe I’ll pay that husband one more visit.

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