Homicide Á La Carte

As the common saying goes: you are what you eat. It’s quite surprising how much you can tell about a person just from what they consume. A prime example would be lunch at the office. More specifically, the office of the local detective station where, at this moment, five coworkers sat around a table, each munching on their individual meals. Though they had worked together for over seven years, it was surprising how little they knew about each other. Even partners who patrolled the city together only knew the surfaces of personal histories. Yet, a large chunk of each officer’s past could be revealed just by examining what they were lunching on - for some of the city's brightest minds who solved crimes daily through deduction, it was surprising they hadn’t figured out everything about each other just by looking at their food, clothes, and body odours… 

Sergeant Blake Tudor sat at the head of the table, enjoying a home-packed lunch box of multiple leftovers from multiple days: a vegetable spring roll and sweet-and-sour chicken from the Chinese she ordered last night; carrot sticks with dried hummus from the snack three days ago; and a blueberry muffin from six days ago that she froze. Blake worked. A lot. She had climbed her way to the position of Sergeant - a role few females held. Though she worked ten to twelve hour shifts everyday, usually with overtime, when she went home there was no time to rest. Waiting for her was her father - former war veteran, Police Captain, and personal hero to Blake - who suffered from dementia. Blake had hired a nurse to look after her father while she was at work, given that her sister was ‘too busy’ travelling and shopping to care, and Blake took on the remaining responsibility when she returned home, as she couldn’t afford more assistance. She cooked for her father, she cleaned for him, she reminded him. Effectively, Blake had no time for herself - no time for a relationship, children, hobbies… but she wouldn’t have it any other way. She loved her father with all her heart. He had raised her, taking her to the station when she was a young child, seating her in his office. Detectives would swarm in and out all day, dismal with constantly having to work with death and tragedies - and upon seeing this bright eyed child, they would smile. An innocent, happy kid that starkly juxtaposed the death they faced all day. Blake soon became fascinated by crime. Her father’s work was gruesome and devastating, but the homicide detectives also served as a voice for those who wrongfully died. She quickly enrolled in the academy after high-school. 

Blake always organised her life around her father’s, and catered to his wishes - if he wanted Chinese, she ordered Chinese. She helped him eat - fed him, wiped him off… and she got the leftovers. 

Chugging down a litre of black, filter coffee, along with five different chocolate bars from the vending machine, was Detective Colt Campbell. Colt needed a sugar rush. A new father of twins, Colt couldn’t remember the last time he had slept. Well, ‘new’ is an understatement - his children were already six months old. But Colt’s wife was a nurse, who - like Colt - worked long hours. Colt would labour during the day, come home exhausted, give his wife a kiss, and say goodbye while she dashed out for her shift. Though the door would softly close behind her, Colt would instantly hear the wails of one child - and, in sync, the other would wake up as well and begin screaming. Colt and his wife met in school - the dream, high-school sweethearts. It was their good-natured hearts that sealed their bond: they both wanted to make a difference in the world. While his wife chose to work with the living, Colt opted for the other end of the spectrum. Nevertheless, Colt wanted a family - hence his two rascals came along. 

So he sat, munched, dozed, and prayed that the sugar rush would kick in, invigorating his veins, turning on his brain. Though he looked like a raccoon and wouldn’t be able to multiply two by two, Colt thanked the miracle that brought his two kids into his world. He also thanked whoever had invented Snickers.

Detective Tex Widdicombe silently ate his vegetable rice stir-fry - a rainbow of colours from the red peppers, yellow chickpeas, green broccoli, purple onion, and brown rice. Tex was raised on a farm. He grew up in a large family with six siblings - large due to his mother’s strongly Catholic faith, and condemnation of contraception. Tex never went to school, rather, as the oldest child, was raised to one day take over the estate. From early legs he was taught to plant various horticulture, milk the cows, collect the eggs, feed the horses, clean the stables, replenish the hay… But although there were certain benefits to living in the countryside - Tex’s favourite being watching the golden and magenta sunsets while laying in the middle of a hay field, with no sound of city life or traffic for miles - Tex was scarred when he learned the main source of profit for the farm: meat. Slaughtering animals. Slicing pigs. Decapitating chickens. Shooting lame puppies. Tex had a soft-heart, and easily got attached to all living things around him… so he was horrified when he witnessed his father pulling out a knife, and slicing the throat of his fauna. They were animals his father had raised, kept enclosed, took advantage of, and then violently murdered… Tex simply didn’t understand how animal slaughter was not a crime. So, one morning, Tex looted his father’s wooden box of money. He bought the cheapest bus ticket he could find, and drove into the city. He found the shabbiest, most run-down motel, and a job waiting tables in a small cafe. He enrolled in night school, where he learned to read and write, though his countryside slang never left his voice. 

As soon as possible, he joined the police force. After witnessing the atrocities and suffering of the animals on the farm - hearing the squealing and crying day and night, in his dreams and in reality - he wanted to save other creatures from mass-murder. The killings left an everlasting imprint, and Tex refused to ever eat meat again.

Sipping away on a skimmed-milk coffee was Detective Karin York. Karin’s mother had always been obsessed with beauty pageants. As Karin grew up, it was clear that she was exceptionally beautiful - with golden locks, permanently clear skin, an hourglass figure, tall legs, slim body… All the features conventional society deemed ‘beautiful’. Rather than letting Karin grow up as the average child, her mother forced her to attend these aforementioned pageants. She would buy hula-hoop skirted, expensive dresses for her daughter, usually in blue or pink. There was glitter, sequins, glitter, tiaras, glitter, fake flowers… There were also false smiles. Karin had been forced into an industry that hooked peadophiles, created over-obsession with appearances, and lowered self-esteem. But what she truly wanted was to play football with the three brothers her mother had disregarded, since her “beautiful princess” was the real cash-earner. She wanted to roll in the mud, sprint in the rain, gorge on pizzas and beer… Which is why, despite her mother’s protests and threats of exile, Karin enlisted in the police force - a primarily male employment sector, with a lot of physical activity and training. She sold all her tiaras, shoes, and gowns to buy a small and comfortable apartment. And she couldn’t be happier.

The only permanent side-effect to her beauty pageants was the eating disorder her mother instilled in her. The need and compulsion to be slim. As taught and disciplined, she was to eat maximum twice a day, with no sugar, carbs, or fat. Though she had started eating the previously forbidden food groups, she still kept to the two meals a day. She gained muscle from daily training - but she remained terrified of a third meal. And so she sipped away on her skimmed-milk coffee. 

Detective Tomasso Rizzo gobbled down a sandwich from the local deli - soft, white ciabatta bread, with thinly sliced Genoa salami, sharp provolone, olives, onions, tomatoes, and beautiful, melting butter… toasted, of course. In all honesty, there was really no justification for his meal. Tomasso was Italian. His mother was Italian. His father was Italian. His nonas, and great-nonas, and cousins, and three sisters, and wife - all were Italian. And Tomasso liked Italian food - it tasted like home… So he went to the Italian deli, ordered in Italian to the Italian deli-owner, and enjoyed his Italian panini… Tomasso was a very happy Italian.

The five officers ate in silence. They knew nothing about each other. They paid no attention to each other’s lunch options. And then the phone range announcing another murder, and they all bolted up.