As nobody has a copy of my book http://www.amazon.com/dp/B0078VZREI . I will give you a brief back ground to Bill's story, he was once a good cop, but owing to a tendency to drink brought on by an injury incurred in the line of duty and being a good fighter, he got handed the tough cases to bust. One such case ended up with him being branded a cop-killer, but he had to keep a secret from the people in the town-even from fellow officers-and now he lives from hand to mouth as a cop with a dirty reputation.
This is a section of his story from the time he left the force to the beginning of the book mentioned.
Bill Chart PI
He turned the key in the lock and walked down the alley to the lot used as a storage area, the only things left were water soaked packages and old beer bottles; kicking the bottles aside he made his way to the docks and the place of the shooting. No matter how you rolled the dice, he became a cop-killer that day and nothing could change history, his only hope lay under the boards of the office and the hope one day somebody would find the pages.
Bill took the same walk each day, trying to go through what happened and trying to figure out a way he didn’t look like a heel, but each time he tried, he got the same scenario and the voices in his mind yelling, “Nobody wants you, Bill, you’re a dirty cop!” If he hadn’t taken the first job, perhaps the events of the day could have been avoided, but Johnson needed his help back in the day and he had a debt to pay-a debt which came back to haunt him every night.
With nowhere to go, now all the bars tabs had been filled and his face wasn’t welcome, even in the lowest places, he wandered the streets-a lonely man looking for a way to clear his name, in a town of hate. Try as he might to avoid returning to the empty office, each night the walk ended up back there with a bottle in his hand, only tonight he had no bottle-only stale, cold coffee.
He fumbled for the key and turned the lock over, not once in the time since he was forced out of the force did he think anybody would come looking to make trouble for him, why would they? He had more than enough dirt for a life time, and there was nothing to gain by pressuring him as a man with nothing left to live for-not even hope-doesn’t care any more. He had been a proud man back in those days; now all he wanted was a beer or a whiskey to dull the pain in his back and somewhere to rest his back where it didn’t hurt. The dark city closed its doors for the night as he opened the door to the office, to be greeted by the gloomy reality of his life, cold, stale coffee and even staler food on the desk top, “God, when was the last time I ate,” he thought as he crossed the floor to the window.
He looked out at the streets he once patrolled with a sense of loss so deep it took your breath away, and left you with like an empty freezer in the heat wave. As he viewed the street below, he thought he caught a glimpse of movement, as if somebody was trying to keep to the shadows, and they were heading up the street to the block of offices. “Who is down in the dark and why do they want me?” he thought. He took a second glance at the street but only saw the darkening gloom, “My mind is going and I’m seeing ghosts, hell I have plenty of them,” he muttered and laughed, as he walked back to the beaten old chair he used as a bed.
Even in his dreams, Bill was haunted by the demons of his past, not a night went by when he slept through and now with no money for a shot of pain killer, how would he keep the demons in his dreams at bay?
He spent another restless night tossing and tuning and woke to another day of pain and the dreadful thought nothing would clear his name in his life time, rummaging through the bin for the last remains of the roll from his last meal, he thought, “How far down have I come? Here I am looking for leftovers from days ago.”
He found the roll and put the stale bread on the table top, he didn’t want to eat this, but even green bread is food to a starving person and he couldn’t recall the last tie he had food, all he remembered from the last weeks was going to the Lincoln and hitting the bottle, “I’d kill for a shot of Rye,” he muttered, as he went to the coffee machine, only to find he had enough coffee for two cups left, “Shit!” Bill shouted as he hit the machine, “even my coffee is out.” He poured a cold cup of stale coffee and walked to the window, looking out at the same spot as last night, he wondered, “Who had been in the shadows and what made them head this way?”
Puzzles and ghosts he had plenty of, but what he needed was a job and as they say “Don’t wish too hard, or your wish will come true,” and for him the dream came true, but in ways he would not dream possible.
Bill put the cup on the table and looked at the roll, fingering the stale bread and fighting the pain of hunger-he chose not to eat, the last thing he needed was a session in the hospital-too many bad memories, throwing the roll in the bin, he turned back to the door and watched as the shadows of the girls moved like ghosts across the frosted panes as they went to work. While he viewed the scene, he saw a sheet of paper had been slipped under the door, he went to pick the note up as he opened the note he read:-“Meet me in the park at 11:30 today,” the note was unsigned and typed, so he had no way of telling who the sent he note, but what did he have to lose by going?