As he continued searching the scene, he came to the conclusion that whoever shot the man, was not a stranger to being on the run. The bed stripped, the shower wiped clean. The room in fact was impeccable; as if no one had ever reserved the room in the first place. Dumbfounded he ran his fingertips across the dresser searching for a spec of evidence. For a moment he sat scanning the room. Suddenly, he thought of the body.
"Sergent, let's get this body down to forensics for an autopsy." he muttered as he moved out of the hotel room into his cruiser, effortlessly switching it into gear. As he drove down the road he glanced at his watch. 12:45. Last call awaited him, perhaps a young twenty-something with no real desire to fall in love.
Detective Matson was a man in his early thirties, a son of a retired cop. He was arrogant, cocky, and one hell of a detective. He spent the majority of his time at a local tavern sipping Johnny Walker Red Label pursuing the advances of attractive business women; women, who in fact, were far more successful than he would ever be. Although he wouldn't admit it to the guys at the station, he was growing weary of the drunken evenings, and the countless women who grazed their tender lips across his neck. But, he had nothing left. His wife had left him for a man with a doctorate from Harvard. "A family man", she had told him. "The kind of man I want raising my children." Despite his better efforts, she had left the next day, suitcase in hand, her wedding ring on his nightstand.
As he drove down the main street, he thought of that particular evening and the bottle of scotch that soon ensued upon throwing her ring out of the window on the interstate. He didn't understand, nor would he ever understand.
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