Highly Confidential

[possible triggers: social injustice, physical abuse, murder, suicide]

“Here’s a little something for your troubles.”, he says while handing me the envelope, side-eyeing me while I put the photographs away, “Make sure to destroy them, or next time he won’t be so generous.”

 At this point my whole world is spinning. I take the envelope and put it in my drawer, next to the photographs. I’ll be honest, the amount of money is tempting, but this case won’t let me be. There is nothing I can do, nobody to go to. Everyone's in it, everyone that could do anything about it. I have to play along, even if it means I’m covering up a murder, flushing my integrity down the drain. What if he doesn’t stop? I saw him with the lead detective, he didn’t seem in distress and the worst thing is; it isn’t his first time. So much money and influence, and for what?

I can’t get her expression out of my head. So young, so… terrified. The choke marks on her neck, bruises on her body, her eyes wide open, begging for dear life while at her last breath. Honestly, I’ve seen lots of things, but this one is different. This time I know there could be no gratification from catching the perpetrator. He is here, like an eyesore, still living, making big decisions for the city, being a saint while having the police on his payroll. What could possibly stop him?

So, this morning I get back to the office and the TV’s on, the girls’ family is crying on the news, saying they can’t believe their daughter committed suicide. “She was a cheerful person.”, they say. Still, no one batts an eye. A little something for my troubles… I swear, the trouble of keeping my mouth shut is greater than anything I have felt in a lifetime. Anyway, I go to my office, take the photographs and here I am, at your desk.”, said the detective.

“Hmm, so you are sure the mayor is the one who did it? I mean, these are just pictures of her...”, he stopped for a moment, “the victim’s naked body.”, the journalist was squinting at him over his glasses.

“He was in the suite that night with an escort, the girl. I’m telling you; we were the first to get the call. The creep assaulted her and then strangled her, paid everyone who knows anything to keep their mouths shut. And it’s not just the money involved; people could lose their lives if they spoke up. But there’s got to be a way. I mean, when the public finds out, he’s done! You and I, we could do that!", then he realized he went on a tangent, "Look, the police report even says the girl was in another room and made it look like it was suicide. But I took these...”, he was pointing at the photographs again, specifically the strangulation marks on her neck, “You got to publish this story! If this continues, so help me God...”

“Look, Mark, I want to believe you, I really do. Say I publish this story. What do you think would happen since, as you so put it, everyone's in it. Huh? You think anyone will listen to you or me?”, his patience was running out.

Mark’s face was getting bright red, the pressure from the past two days has gotten to him. “Take these.”, he handed him the photographs, “You have the whole story. The rest is up to you. Just think about it, you could save lives and bring justice to daylight. Okay? Here’s my card, give me a call when you decide.”, as he was leaving, he felt a spark of optimism cross his mind.

***

The next morning, he was in the kitchen, eating his breakfast while standing when he heard a notification on his phone, it was an article from the local newspaper.

ARTICLE HEADLINE: Detective responsible for the death of Sarah Moore?

He skimmed through in disbelief.

“... Multiple witnesses report seeing the detective, Marc Hoffman, enter the hotel lobby with a young woman, now known as Sarah Moore, a 25-year-old escort...”

“... The photographs were submitted as evidence by a young police officer who was at the crime scene and wanted to bring justice to daylight, the policeman wishes to remain anonymous …”

“... “I can’t just sit back watching the big shots cover up for each other”, says the policeman...”

“... There seems to be a connection with two individual cases prior to this one, where the deaths of young women were also written off as a suicide...”

Marc’s jaw dropped when he finally read the article. He immediately took the phone and tried to call the journalist, but no one was answering. “How could I have been so stupid?!”, he yelled, hitting the kitchen cabinets with his fists. But the worst was yet to come. His wife, Cynthia, was coming downstairs with her phone in hand, blankly staring at Marc. Her eyes were puffy and red, she had been crying.

“Is this true?”, she showed him the article on her phone.

“Look, honey, I can explain. I’ve been set up, I swear.”, he stuttered, “I know how this looks, just, please hear me out!”, his face revealed his agony.

“I... I’m not sure if I want to Marc...”, her voice broke and she started crying again, “How can you possibly justify this? Tell me Marc! How does one end up being set up with such a heinous crime?”, her voice was so hoarse that you could feel the pain in her throat, “Get out!”, she finally screamed, “Get out of this house! I can’t even look at you!”

He stood there motionless, wanting to say so much, but realizing there’s nothing he could say that would change anything. Her words pierced his chest and he could feel something breaking inside of him. A mixture of sadness, anger and despair flowed through his veins. He had to think quickly. How long before they come after him? They must be on their way just now.

As the thought crossed his mind, he rapidly picked his car keys, his badge and gun and stormed through the front door, hearing Cynthia’s damning screams in the background. If they arrest him now, he might never get a chance to prove his innocence. He took his wife’s car and drove away.

***

“You f**king bastard! What on earth have you done!”, screamed the voice on the other side of the phone as he picked up, “Haven’t I told you to keep your f**king mouth shut! Now we are both going to... Actually, no! I won’t, YOU will go down for this, you and you only! I’ll say anything I need to say! I am no fool like you!”, the lead detective yelled. Marc couldn’t utter a sound. His face was numb as his whole life was collapsing right in front of him. “Cat got your tongue? Well, I hope you rot in prison for however long it takes!”, he took a deep breath and continued calmly,” To think that you could’ve had your house mortgage paid off, while sunbathing in Bermuda with your dear wife. You darn fool!”, he hung up.

***

Later that day, Cynthia was lying in her bed, her eyes bloodshot from crying. Having read the article dozens of times, thinking about what Marc have said. She wasn’t sure what to think. Wherever her thoughts went, she would end up not having it in her to believe him. Her phone buzzed on her pillow; another article notification from the local newspaper.

ARTICLE HEADLINE: Detective drove off a bridge! Possible suicide?