Cold Morning, Cold Case

It’s been four years since she died. 

I’m sitting in my office on a cold summer morning and I should be working, but I just can’t focus. My left hand absentmindedly taps at my leg as I stare at the bright screen of my computer. I’m not on a case, but that doesn’t mean I have nothing to do, even if it is just checking emails. 

All I’m really doing is deleting, anyway, barely even glancing at the subject line. I click through them so quickly, I almost miss an email from my boss. ‘New Case.’ 

I’m so surprised that my left hand stills. My boss doesn’t like emails. His rant is well known in the office, even among new recruits. Most of us could probably quote word for word his speech about how talking in person is better.

I click open the email, skimming it quickly to find out why he’s broken his supposed moral code. It's a long email, not unlike his speaking patterns, and when I finally get to the point I think for a second that I've misread it.

When I blink several times it still reads the same, and I let a bright grin spread across my face. I’ve actually been assigned to the Maria Miller case. 

It was about as far from my usual work as you could get, a suicide that might have been a murder, but whenever a case like this comes up I can’t help asking to be put on it. It’s just too close to how she died. Even though it’s been years, I still want to find justice for her by helping everyone who died like she did. 

Besides, it would look suspicious if I stopped the pattern now, after I’d spent my whole career as a detective doing the same thing. 

Below the assignment is a link, and when I click on it, it brings me to an online case file. I can’t help my grimace of disdain; I’ve always preferred the aesthetic of flipping open a thick manila folder and flicking through crinkled and torn pieces of paper. 

At the top of the document there’s a short abstract. It describes Miller’s parents bringing the case to us, the weirdly angled knife wounds and the immaculate suicide note, not to mention the other little things that don’t quite add up. Below the abstract is a description of Miller, twenty-five, a life skills coach and a college drop-out. She had been running a blog for about two years, but it was about crocheting, hardly likely to draw negative attention. 

She was almost typical to a fault, as far as I’d read, and there was almost no way she would draw the attention of a random murderer. At least not enough for them to go through the effort of murdering her in her own home. 

I decide to finish reading through the case file later, and armed with my vague knowledge of Miller’s life, I scroll down to the bottom of the document where the offices of my coworkers are listed. Immediately after reading them I start repeating the names in my mind: White and Butler, White and Butler, White and Butler, keeping them in my mind as I push back my chair. 

I stand up, closing my laptop and sliding it under my arm before walking out of my office. As I walk around the agency, I look for a plaque that has one of the two names on it. The agency is large, and I walk past Anaheim, Stanford, and Lee before stumbling upon White’s office. 

She’s engaged in conversation with another operative, seeming angry and biting as she snaps at them. I can’t quite hear what they’re saying, and I stand next to the door awkwardly, leaning against the wall to wait for them to finish talking. 

I would much rather wait a few minutes for them to finish talking then interrupt what might be a vicious conflict. 

Fortunately, the argument winds down quickly, and the door swings open. The second person walks out and upon noticing me White beckons me inside. 

“What’s the plan for the Miller case?” I ask, sitting down in a chair. I’m not much for pointless platitudes, and it’s best she knows why I’m here. 

She replies, “I’ve only spoken to Butler once about this particular case, but we think it’s best to interview the suspects.”

“I didn’t see anything about suspects in the file.” 

As White opens her mouth to speak, probably reprimanding me for not reading the whole file, the door swings open, and someone walks inside. 

She double-takes before saying, “Butler, perfect timing. Spencer’s been put on the case, we need to go through the suspects.”

Butler adjusts his glasses and agrees, “I’ll type up a list. Spencer can interview the boyfriend.”

We fall silent, Butler opening his laptop and beginning to quickly type up what is presumably the list. 

I pull out my laptop as well, reading through the rest of the case file. There’s not much, a short description of Miller’s family life and the one time she was confirmed on the wrong side of the law, a single case of drinking and driving. 

As Butler’s typing falls silent I glance up and he tells me to scroll to the bottom of the file. There’s an immaculate list, ordered from most likely to least. At the very top is Jason Corvin, her boyfriend. 

I glance up at them, asking, “Why is the boyfriend at the top?” 

Sure, it always seems to be the boyfriend in these cases, but that’s hardly proof. 

They look at me, and White starts talking slowly as if it’s something she’s said many times before, “It didn’t take much digging to learn that Corvin is a drug dealer. He’s awaiting his trial right now, but before that and Maria’s death she had been considering turning him in.” 

I wince, trying to keep my face neutral. I remember being in a similar situation, knowing who murdered my friend but having no one willing to listen. The culprit was put on trial, but acquitted of all charges.  

It’s just too close to the way my friend died, and it was that way on purpose. If the law wouldn’t give my friend justice, I would, and I had no qualms with murdering Maria Miller; with murdering the murderer of my best friend.