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On the bureau, by the bed, was a picture of Maria Cross. Three years before, my wife had been murdered in a drive-by shooting. That murder, like the majority of murders in Southeast, had never been solved.
His face looked like a wedding cake left out in the rain.
“Fuck you,” said the sergeant. It was nice to meet the white Eddie Murphy.
Special Investigator Team. S.I.T. It’s made up of eight black officers supposedly slated for better things in the department.
“Thank you for saving my life,” he said. “Someday, I’ll kill you for it, Detective Cross.”
philosopher Spinoza once wrote: “I have striven not to laugh at human actions, not to weep at them, nor to hate them, but to understand them.”
It’s all right to put the weight of the world on your shoulders sometimes, if you know how to take it off.
“Cut to the chase, hmmmm. Okay, good. Because I am seriously rushed. Now. You have two very clear choices. ONE—I’ll have to cut off your penis here and now, put it in your mouth as a convenient gag, and then torture you with little flesh cuts, hundreds of cuts, starting with the face and neck, until you tell me what I need to know. All right so far? Am I being clear? To repeat—choice number one: painful torture leading inevitably to exsanguination.”
