I am typing this as quickly as I can. I just woke up a few minutes ago after coming back to take a short rest before going back to the precinct. There was a call from Danny, he says we just got a possible suspect. I got asked to join in the raid, he's somewhere in Canal Street. Danny says he might be armed and possibly being accompanied by some unwanted friends. I'll be going in a few minutes after I'm done preparing.

Time to pay this fucking murderer a surprise visit.

Connected

Another case came into our department yesterday. I'm being as careful as I can with the details on this blog. As far as I know, I'm trying as hard as I can to avoid breaking rules. The victim was found indefinitely murdered with a direct stabbing to the neck with a long thin weapon, probably a medical syringe. From what I know, it was pretty lethal. The victim was killed within minutes after a foreign substance was injected into his body. We found his body in his apartment, it was still fresh.

Neighbors didn't really help us much. They said he liked to keep to himself and didn't really have any problems with people. Your typical quite neighbor. I'm sure you know from the title of this post by now. He's connected to the case I've been working on with the team for the past few days. From what medical examinations said, the method and weapon were the same on both cases. But why them? So far, we've found no connections in their lives other than their deaths.  

I felt angry when Captain Montague passed the file over to the guys and me. If we had managed to find something, he wouldn't have died. When I came into Homicide, I had expected things like this to happen. But that didn't mean I could handle it with a straight face. Danny and Jacky worked in the precinct with me all night yesterday. Nothing turned up. I came home around five in the morning to take a short rest. Sam was waiting for me I think, she just smiled at me when I came in. She heated up some Chinese noodles she had ordered earlier and told me to eat it. I felt awkward, the person I was offering my house to was taking care of me instead. I ate and went to sleep.

It's almost half past nine in the morning now, I'm about ready to go back and join the guys at the precinct again. Samantha's probably awake by now, I can hear her cooking something. I hope she doesn't burn the place down. Time to go.

Early Bird

It's near nine in the morning on a Friday. I'm typing up this post before I go to work, for my own entertainment. As much as I would hate to admit it, I think I'm starting to like blogging even more now. Samantha's asleep, she's been tired lately from staying up working on her manuscript. I'd like to tell her to rest more and take it easy. But knowing her attitude, that would be impossible.

I guess I should probably talk about what I have been doing lately. One, would be coming back home past midnight every day. Our hours have been extended in the Homicide department and we've been working as much as we can to solve this case. Our M.E. found 'abnormal details' in their toxicology reports and lead us into thinking it might not have been a simple case of suicide. In case you're wondering, we did make theories about overdoses on purpose. That was proven impossible however, when we found out he had been injected with it. Then, there's the simple fact that he also hanged himself. So either he was trying to make sure he would die more easily or someone is trying to cover up a murder.

Since then, the guys and I have been burning the midnight oil searching for clues. As far as I'm concerned, we have nothing. Danny and Jacky are both taking turns sleeping in the break room so that one of them gets to open the precinct early for us to work. I wanted to take part too, but they said I didn't have to since I only live about a fifteen minutes drive in the morning away. Caffeine's been my best friend lately and I routinely collapse on my bed every night. I'm worried about this case. It's already been days since we started the investigation and it might go cold soon.

I have to go now.

Making Calls

I phoned a few people today, most of them related to our victim. Yes, I said victim. The case is no longer a suicide investigation, a few details we found just made it homicide. The call was to confirm whatever loose ends I found inside our reports.

Was he being hated by anyone?

Did he seem nervous for the past few days?

Did he have any medical problems?

Was there anything peculiar about him lately?

Are you sure you were there during these times?

I don't bother imagining what it's like to hear these questions if I'm on the other side, not anymore. It's useless to try and put your doubts or emotions before duty.

Sympathy however, is something that doesn't just go away if you wish it will. At the end of every one of these calls, there's often questions from the other end as well. And sometimes, your answers can change a lot of things. Maybe that's why I just say, "I'm very sorry for your loss, please call if there's anything at all." before waiting to hear their goodbye and hang up. But sometimes they don't say goodbyes, they sometimes cry and ask to talk. That's when I come to the painful decisions of either telling them there's nothing I can do or listen to their stories for the rest of the night. There are consequences for both and I can't bare to choose the latter anymore, bad memories prevent that.

I called my parents. The calls made me feel worried. I didn't feel like I would be able to sleep soon. After a while, the ringing stopped abruptly with a crack and I could hear my mother sleepily trying to greet me.

"Yes?" she sounded tired on the other end.
 "Uh, hey mom," I said the words awkwardly.
"Will?" she must have been surprised by me calling after so long.
 I felt slightly hurt from what she said next, "Why did you call?"

I realized how long it had been since I visited. A whole year in fact, since last February. We talked for a while, asking each other about how we were doing. Mom said my dad caught some salmon the other day on his boat and it almost got stolen by some bird. I laughed a little at her story and felt better at hearing her voice. It had been so long.

"Be sure to visit okay? Take care of yourself, and get a girlfriend already. Grandchildren don't make themselves." The last part felt unnecessary but I only laughed and said goodbye. Luckily, I didn't tell her about Samantha. She would have took what I said the wrong way.

Busy Day

Just got back from the precinct a few hours ago. I feel a lot more better after a taking a shower, clears the mind for whatever work I do. Things were a little hectic today when a case came into our department. We had to go to an old rental apartment and do what we always did. We bagged evidence, took pictures, talked to a few people and et cetra, et cetra. About a whole hour and a half was wasted just by me and a few officers talking to every single tenant in the apartment. By then, CSU already combed through the whole place and took whatever counted as evidence.  I won't be saying anything about the case that can get me suspended by the captain, but I can say what I think about it. Which is that it was probably a suicide. Probably, and I won't go any further on the details.

Anyways, the hardest part comes after that. Telling the relatives. This is probably the one part which I dread the most in my work. Every single time there's a dead body, they always expect someone to deliver the news. You'll probably think, "Hey, nothing big. I'll get used to it in no time."

Well, I can tell you that it definitely is not something you get used to.

It's not just the crying faces that I get to see, I have to keep a straight face through the whole thing every time I announce the death of their friends, wives, husbands, kids and even the occasional grandfather. I have to see if they're lying about what they say and most of the time they are. Relationships can be just as true as a horror fiction story, you believe if you're convinced to.

There are also times when the uglier side of humanity gets revealed. The seven sins are always seen on those faces. I have heard people asking things they shouldn't ask when they're told someone they know in their lives just died away. I used to think that working for Vice had been bad before being transferred. But now, I take it all back. It makes me sick to see those smug snakes, I can tell you that.

I'm just going to stop talking about the case now, just thinking about it is starting to wake up some bad memories.

I need to sleep.

Samantha Cooper

The blond I mentioned is called Samantha Cooper. I guess, you could call her a childhood friend. If by friend you mean someone who randomly came into your house one day with a hangover, heavy luggage bags, a face full of tears and say that their landlord just kicked them out for setting a curtain on fire. then yes.

We met around fifth grade in our hometown. Back then, only one school had been open. Most of the kids whose parents couldn't afford the education became fishermen, hunters or something else. After all, who needs to read a book when you can skin a bear and hunt a deer? The school still had a decent amount of kids though, but I didn't bother making friends. Too shy, I guess. I used to be different back then, preferred being alone by myself instead of playing with others.

There was this game I used to play by myself at the town park. The town park was more of a playground, where a half-circle of large, tall black trees bordered us from the rest of the forest. I would always go to the very edge of the place and play my little game. It was a simple one, pick out one of the roots that stood out from the ground and balance yourself on it. After a while, I would look around for another root and see if I could make a jump to it. Too far and I would fall off, too close and I might lose my balance on the spot.

 One day when I made the jump, a ball of fucking white hit me right in the back of my leg.

I can still remember the pain I had when I was lying on the cold ground, trying not to cry. My teeth gritted together to stop myself from bawling and all I saw were the park swings from a weird angle. There were footsteps after a few seconds, crunching the dead leaves as it got closer. My eyes were too watery to even see properly at the time but I can remember a few images faintly. I saw this woman in a clean white parka that was one size too big for her slim figure run up to me. A pair of hands grabbed me to pull me up and I noticed long pale gold hair touching me on the face. The woman took out a piece of cloth from her parka and wiped my tears away, all the while saying comforting words to me and checking to see if I was alright. I shook my head even though my leg was hurting like hell. Then, she took me by the hand and led me down to the swings.

That was when I met Samantha.

The moment we got close enough to the swings and my tears finally dried up, I saw this yellow and white blur going up and down on the swings. Samantha was probably the fastest person I had ever saw on them. The woman, her mom called her name. "Samantha," it was a soothing and kind voice but at the same time, you could almost hear the anger and authority behind it. The blur slowed down and a little girl slightly taller than me hopped off her swing like a cat. Samantha was like an identical twin to her mother, but younger and had this childish frown on her face. She folded her arms, came up to us and said defiantly, "What." It didn't even sound like a question, just a plain old word of defiance. Her green eyes just stared at you deep into your soul and it seemed like she could have just bit your head off. I teared a little at her mean behavior, Samantha's mom let out a long disappointing sigh. 

"Samantha, apologize to him."

"No," she said and just continued staring at me bitterly.

"Samantha-"

"No!" she cut her own mother off and something must have snapped in me because I suddenly felt angry at her.

"You're a meanie! Jerk!" I just yelled childishly.

"No, you are!"

"No, you!"

"No, you!"

I can't even remember how long it continued before Martha finally managed to drag us back to her house and called my mother. The argument just kept going and going and going until my parents came. I remember seeing how she stuck her tongue out at me and I did the same thing. The  very next day, she came to me during recess in school. I didn't even notice at first with her hair tied up into a bun. It took me a while but when I recognized who she was, I recoiled and slid all the way to the other side of the bench with my sandwich. She smiled and slid over to me. I can remember even until today what she said, "Hey, I'm sorry for yesterday okay?" I was surprised at her being nice at first but then, she grabbed the uneaten sandwich out of my hand and took a cute little bite out of it.

"See? I'm being nice," and she just smiled at me. My skin crawled. No words were said for the rest of recess. I was hungry and felt uneasy all day long. The rest of my childhood was the same, she would take what I had and I would have to suffer from our dreaded relationship. From that day on, I started carrying an extra sandwich to school. She didn't even seemed surprised and the same thing applied to the rest of what I did.

If she saw playing by the trees, she would make me teach her how and if I was caught running errands for my parents, she would make it a mission to make me late. All of that lasted for years and years until we parted ways for college. We kept in touch though. She would just blab to me about all the boys she dated, and sometimes call for advice. Last time I heard of anything, she went to Massachusetts while I came to New York. Then, about a year ago we met again.

In an interrogation room.

Turns out Samantha's plans in Masses fell out and she came to NY for a breather. She got stuck here instead without enough money to back and got drunk with what was left of it. I didn't even recognize her until I saw her ID, and the fake in a slit on the back of the wallet. She got detained for a while until I offered to call her parents but she refused. I ended up sending her back to her little apartment. Just like the old times.

But honestly, I didn't mind too much.

Not until she arrived at my front door.

Good God, where did I go so wrong?

NYAN NYA NYAN

SO I HERD U LIEK CATZ, WILL.

NYAN NYAN NYA NYA NYANYA NYA NYA~~~ >:3

Hey

My name is William Trevor, Will for those who know me better. I was named by my parents after the famous Irish writer and playwright. They say my grandfather used to admire him when he was still alive.

A few weeks ago, my friend Samantha - who has built a reputation for being persuasive over the years - told me to make a blog. I said no at first. I would never be able to live it down if anyone ever saw me writing on an online journal, let alone a normal one. But she did say it could help me with my stress. That, along with a few annoying phone calls, messages and surprise home invasion might have helped get her point across. So here I am.
 

I guess I should write more about myself. I'm only a few months away from going twenty-eight, living in Downtown Manhattan and currently being forced to share my apartment with a homeless, evil unemployed blond. The force was never my first choice for a job. Before I came here, I planned on studying Law at Harvard. My parents were happy with me, even proud enough to boast about their 'little William's ambition'. A little something got in the way however. Bad memories were made, locked away along with ruined relations. At the end of everything, I found myself attending the annual police graduation at the Madison Square Garden.

Things were tough at first. My seniors told me to head back to Harvard. They thought I was too useless and had no real qualities for being a cop. They even said I was more likely to be a lawyer instead of upholding the law itself. After all, who wouldn't want to earn six figures just for pissing people off? A few people agreed and my parents made it a mission to persuade me into doing Law again. But some gave me support when needed and I put all the time I had into work and studying. I slowly made my way up from a traffic police officer to what I am now, a first-class homicide detective at the First Precinct.

That's my story.

I think I ran out of things to say. Not that there's any more need for it, looks like I wrote more than I thought I could have. Blogging doesn't seem like such a bad thing after all, who knew?