The Job
The rhythmic tune of the waves against the shore did little to calm Doctor Fillmore, who sat on the narrow balcony overlooking the shore. The waters of the Pacific normally set his mind at ease, each wave lapping on the shore sending him into quiet musings. This time the sound only served to agitate him. His right hand scratched at the patch of grey that had begun to intrude into the brown hair of his temple. He attempted to read the day’s headlines in the paper, but the words blended together as his mind withdrew into the abyss of thought.
“It’s always about your damn job, isn’t it?” Rebecca’s voice echoed in his mind, “I’m so tired of sharing you with every criminal in the god damned state! Mister big-shot profiler, too busy to spare one evening for your own fiancé!”
“Listen,” his voice echoed back, with a tone of strained calmness, “you are the most important thing in my life, but that doesn’t change the fact that my work is also important.” In retrospect, he imagined he could have responded differently, told her that he’d give up his job, maybe open up a quiet therapy practice where he counseled troubled couples. But he knew he could never settle for something so mundane.
Daniel looked past the paper, to the diamond ring sitting on the glass-topped table. Size eight and a half, a number burned into his mind. He had cautiously sized her finger while she slept, nearly cutting her finger with the flimsy paper sizing chart. That was six months ago, in a different age.
He knew it was over; the strained relationship had finally crumbled. There was no use lamenting it, he could only pick up the pieces and move on. He needed something to distract himself while his psyche recovered from last-night’s injury. As if on cue, the cell phone in his shirt pocket began to ring.
He sighed and opened his phone, a slim silver model bought on impulse, “Hello?”
“Is this Doctor Daniel Fillmore?” The voice on the other end was old and gruff, the voice of a long-time police officer. It seemed that after so many years on the force, everyone took on that same tone in their voice.
“This is,” Dan affirmed.
“This is Detective David Pierce of the Chicago Police Department,” the voice continued, “We were hoping to have your help on a series of murders here in Chicago.”
Dan stood as he reached for the gold-rimmed glasses on the table. For a moment he considered refusing the job, maybe sulking in his home and nursing his wounds for a few days. However, as he placed the glasses on his nose, he decided against it, regardless of his personal feelings; he had a job to do.
“I would be happy to help, detective,” he put on his most pleasant voice. On some level he became more at ease. His job he understood, it was women who confounded him. Besides, the job would send him to his hometown: Sweet Home Chicago.