Detective Jones sat in the cubicle, he called his office on the 2nd floor of the Los Angeles Sherifs Department, in Downtown LA. The 2nd floor could have been mistaken for any other office building in town, if it weren’t for the 4 interview rooms along one side of the floor with double sided mirrors and adjoining observation rooms. That and the crime scene photos, that where posted on various Detective’s Cubicles and particle boards on the wall near the conference room. Along the west side of the office a row of glass windows allowed the only light to filter in between the blinds that were always closed.
The cubicle had the name plate Marion Jones, but everyone knew better than to address Jones as such. Gracie had bought him one of those sun lamps that reproduce the natural light, so he would get all of his vitamin D. Jones thought it a wast of money at first, its California for goodness sake. However, when he began his first investigation with the lamp on his desk, he felt better. He had no idea how much sun he was missing, when he was out at night, or indoors doing interviews.
Jones stared at the Dr. Bates Coroner report on his desk, in the John Doe case. It had been 48 hours and still there were no leads on the victims identity. Officer Mike Bell, came round the corner, with two coffees from the cafe down the street. It was an department understanding among the officers that the office coffee (made by the senior receptionist, they had to call her an administrative assistant now, but she was just the receptionist, the Department had hired a younger girl to do the accounts and filing.
Ms. Doris Watts, had been around since after the second world war and had sued the department twice for age discrimination. She had said they had been trying to push her out of the job. According to Doris she had been answering telephones since the superintendent was in diapers and she had no intention of slowing down now, even if she was 70. If you asked any of the officers who worked with Doris they said she made the coffee as if she was back in the war too and it was to be consumed only as a last resort.
“Here you go boss,” Mike said, handing Jones his double tall espresso, and leaned against the corner of the cubicle. “ I spoke with missing persons, and there are still no descriptions matching our guy.”
Jones listened, sipping his coffee. Mike waited to see if Jones was going to say something, but when he didn't Mike continued.
“I‘ve sent the information we did recover to the FBI. So far nothing. We ran his fingerprints Dr. Bates took during the autopsy, and there are no matches from cod-us.”
“Alright, its time to make a statement to the public.”
Jones knocked on the office Superintendent Duke Habbour. It was only two walls of frosted plexi glass with a wooden door. If it didn’t have his name and rank on the door it could be mistaken for the lunch room. Duke had a phobia of germs and so had his own mini fridge and coffee maker, also hand sanitizer bottle installed by the door and another bottle on his desk.
“Its time we went public, we have no identification, and no one is coming forward.”
“What do you have?”
“Nothing that could positively id the biddy, no tattoos of distinguishing marks. Just what looks like a possible animal attack, with the guys hands tied behind his back. We will need to ask the public if they saw anything suspicious in the park. Sean came back with a small lead, he identified a fiber embedded in the victims wrist as a type of nylon fishing line. Mike is on it, searching every shop in the city and every shop that sold that type of line within 100 miles of the park. “
“Okay, I’ll issue a statement, and keep the fishing line back from the public.”
My Grandfather's tank crew
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