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Chapter Two

…Randall Winters finished placing his last personal items into an open box, having cleared his work desk for the last time in his career.
…Can’t believe I’m officially retired.
…He grabbed the box and began what would be his final stride down the bullpen of work stations of the 112th Precinct’s Homicide Squad, the division he regarded as his true home, the seat of his purpose. It was a temple that gave him reason to continue living in service, even if he wished death upon certain members of the police force.
…As Randall took his first step, his eyes glazed at the small details around the office in case he might not appreciate them again. Among them, the black computer screen and keyboard, the gray linoleum floors, the screeching leather-padded chairs, the neon bulbs overhead, the smell of mold and collected dust filtering through the vents. Already, he was feeling nostalgic of the space that helped him solve numerous cases and aid thousands of victims for thirty-one years. He was certainly proud of his achievements, and the New York Police Department itself, but not their politics.
…When the seasoned detective ambled down an aisle of work desks, the entire department stood on their feet to applaud the man of the hour. Randall disliked attention, and kept his head slightly bowed, grinning and nodding to return the warm gesture. He knew their vociferousness was genuine. Aside from a few bad apples, this was a precinct that understood what it meant to be a member of law enforcement, and the service they bestowed to the city.
…“Thank you,” he said, clenching his box, “appreciate it.”
…At the end of the aisle, Lieutenant Myles Corona stood at the doorway that led to the elevators. Wearing a gray tweed jacket over a white shirt but no tie, and flaunting his prominent silver hair, he waited for Randall to proudly shake his hand.
…“This department won’t be the same without you,” said Corona.
…“I’m sure you’ll manage,” said Randall.
…“Got you a going-away present,” Corona jerked his head to the gray marbled corridor where the elevators were located.
…A voluptuous blonde stripper with plump lips, in black thongs, glitter nipple covers and a police hat, held an elevator for Randall. 
…“Oh, you didn’t!” he turned to Corona in complete disbelief.
…“Trust me,” Corona then whispered: “She sucks great!”
…After getting a pat on the back by his superior, Randall walked in short steps towards the salacious piece of flesh that was hired to make him happy.
…The stripper leaned against the doorframe, bending her knees to display her sturdy thighs. 
…“Congratulations on your retirement,” the stripper wet her heavy lipsticked mouth. “You can frisk me all you want.”
…“Do you charge by the hour?” said Randall.
…“It’s all paid for,” the stripper was suddenly naked from head to toe, flashing ample areolas and a plain pubic area that demonstrated no female genitals.
…Randall instantly found himself in the closed elevator without the stripper present nor holding his box. He was alone, waiting to arrive at the lobby, until he caught sight of the city’s mayor standing to his right.
…“Congratulations, Randall,” said the mayor.
…“Thank you, sir. You came all the way from City Hall to congratulate me?”
…“Yes. Also wanted to tell you to fuck off and die.”
…“Huh?”
…Bleep… bleep… bleep!
…Randall woke up to the sound of his mobile signaling an incoming call. It reverberated a generic tone he programmed when the precinct inquired him. 
…“Seriously…?” he mumbled, both stunned at the dream he just had and the preposterous late-night call.
…It wasn’t the first time he dreamt about the beginning of retirement. Although that day was two years afar, they became evermore frequent and authentic, but this was the first time a succulent female appeared in them. 
…Randall’s psychotherapist regarded recurring dreams as a reflection of one’s deepest unconscious desires, and encouraged him to explore their potential meaning by associating its details with what is happening in his awakened life.
…Sure, I’d like strippers to blow me off when I’m collecting pension.
…The presence of the mayor was self-explanatory.
…Resting face-down in bed with heavy eyelids and a body that weighed like an elephant, Randall could tell it was still evening because of the prevailing blackness in the bedroom. 
…Bleep… bleep… bleep!
…His mobile continued blasting its monotonic ring that sounded like a beeper from the nineties.
…“Winters,” he muttered, pressing his phone onto his ear.
…“This is Ursula from desk,” a female voice spoke.
…“Mm-hmm?”
…“Single homicide at the Seaside Motel in Howard Beach, Cross Bay Boulevard, right before the bridge. Ryan Simonelli from 106th and a crew are on their way. Corona wants you on as the lead.”
…Single homicide? Are you kidding me?
…Randall briefly removed the mobile from his ear to check the time: 1:18AM. He rarely questioned the reasons why his superior would assign him a case so late in the evening, much less a single homicide which any other veteran detective could handle.
…“How bad?”
…“I don’t know the details. This is developing right now.”
…Winters sighed. “When was it reported?”
…“12:57.”
…Between dragging himself from bed and getting ready, age had made him slower. Also, the drive from Westbury and then south to Howard Beach, he needed a little more flexibility to avoid a duel with time. In his prime, he could make it to the scene in thirty minutes. Not anymore.
…“I’ll be there in an hour,” Randall hung up.
…Randall knew Detective Simonelli from Queens’ 106th Precinct. A junior investigator with about ten years in the squad, he was certain the crime scene was in good hands with a team collecting the proper information.
…If I can solve this by nine, and talk to an assistant DA, I’m taking the rest of the day off.
…Randall’s seniority in Queens’ Borough Homicide Squad made him the go-to man when experienced detectives were needed for complex cases, often delving into major crimes, even if those were usually handled by a separate department. There were other top-notch investigators like him available, but Lieutenant Corona requesting Randall implied that this case needed keen eyes.
…Though somewhat eager to discover what had occurred in Howard Beach, Randall was not looking forward to the next five minutes. It consisted of hauling his nearly three-hundred pound sack of cholesterol out of bed and waddle like a giant to the bathroom to fix himself up. 
…Looking at his reflection was the worst time of the day. Since his hair started graying, his face bulged, and grew a mustache, no matter how many times he looked in the mirror, Randall couldn’t recognize the man he was seeing. He looked forward to growing a beard and perhaps longer hair after retirement.
…I need Bach.
…There was something about the structured, baroque melodies of Johann Sebastian Bach that prepared his mind and soul for what was coming. It was a ritual he followed, particularly when he was called at unforgivable hours to lead an investigation. 
…Wearing only a white undershirt and boxers, he stepped into the galley kitchen to make Earl Grey tea. He synced his mobile phone with his living room’s stereo speakers, and the apartment was filled with Bach’s Air Suite.
…Perfect.
…Being happily divorced from his second wife was a blessing. Dwelling in peace by himself at the twilight of old age, in the company of his prodigious collection of vinyls, books, and framed black-and-white pictures he took decades ago, he would never trade it for anything better. 
…He purchased his two-bedroom apartment after leaving Staten Island to save money, and be in a much more welcoming community for people who wanted to flee the decay of a metropolis on the brink of collapse. Westbury in Long Island was like New York in the Midwest. When he moved there, Randall considered it one of the best decisions he made. He believed it saved his life, after the predicaments of midlife crisis almost made him pull the trigger in his mouth. It was much more complicated than that, but Randall preferred focusing on securing his pension first, and then making amends with those he let down.
…One goal at a time.
…An incoming call on his mobile interrupted Bach’s music while he boiled some water in a small pot.
…Oh, fuck me sideways!
…Randall looked at the phone screen: Ryan Simonelli 106th.
…Shit.
…“Yeah?” Randall answered without hesitation, placing the call on speakerphone.
…“Randy!” Simonelli had come to admire Winters enough to call him by his nickname. “Are you on your way?”
…“I got the call ten minutes ago,” Winters said. “You at the motel?”
…“Yes. Listen, we’re going HazMat. Victim bled Niagara Falls all over the scene. We’re collecting samples for testing. Suit up before you walk in. The whole place has been evacuated.”
…What the hell?
…“Was it stabbing?”
…“We don’t know yet. There’s way too much blood. It happened in room, uh—1027, first floor. Victim’s male, checked in two hours ago with a female, but she’s gone AWOL.”
…“Is that it?”
…“So far.”
…“I’ll be there in about forty-five.”
…Simonelli hung up, and Bach’s music returned to fill the ambience.
…Victim bled to death? In a motel? With a missing female?
…Winters was beginning to understand why Lieutenant Corona wanted him at the scene.

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