Sam Black

It was the usual bunch of photographs, the scene, the body, the wound, and even the weapon, still there in his hand. Several photos of each, from different angles, probably shot by Hoffmann, since Laretz doesn't work nights anymore. Too old for it, he says, and I guess I don't blame him. He is 72.

But it was the usual bunch of photographs, and as I sat there with them I wasn't feeling motivated. I had been woken up at about 3 AM by the phone, had been at the scene until 10, and had completed a few interviews after that, all over town. Everyone agreed that Eugene Waters would never have killed himself, but there was the gun in his right hand, spattered with blood, and there was the hole in what was left of his head. And for those of you thinking murder, no one could think of anyone who wanted him dead.

I certainly wasn't thinking of murder, not yet. All I could think of was my bed. I flipped through the photographs again, stopping at one that showed the whole scene. Waters lay there on the floor, face up, between his chair and his desk. But I couldn't see straight, couldn't even read the clock on the wall in the photo. I slid the photographs into the case folder, dropped the folder into the file cabinet, got my hat, and went home.

I guess I should introduce myself here. I won't give you my real name, 'cause if it got back to the department they'd have my badge, but I've always kind of liked the name Sam Black, so let's go with that instead. I've got about ten years on the job, the last three in homicide. That makes me not quite the most junior detective in our station house. My wife left me last year, too many hours on the job, I guess, so I moved out and now I live alone in a fifth floor walk-up. It's not a happy home, no pictures on the walls, rented furniture, but when I got home that night I didn't care. I fell right into bed, still dressed, and fell right asleep.

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