15th November 2003
"Two beers, please," I said, signaling the bartender.
Beers were always my escape after a hard day's work. Being a detective in the Homicide Bureau of the Los Angeles County Sheriff's Department wasn't for the faint of heart. Theft, burglary, rapes—they didn't just make the news; they piled on my desk. Some nights, it felt like the city was suffocating under its own chaos.
I lit a cigarette and exhaled a plume of smoke into the dimly lit bar. It was one of the more renowned spots in the area, just a ten-minute walk from the office. Affordable and unpretentious, it was perfect for middle-class workers like me. The ambiance was subdued and discreet, with muted lighting and just enough charm to keep regulars coming back.
The bar also had its fair share of cute young waitresses, though there was no point in looking. I was old enough to be their father—not their "daddy."
"Tough guy," Samuel Waltzman, my closest colleague, remarked as he slid onto the bar stool beside me.
I smirked. "Just a guy in need of a little tonic, Sam."
"A lonely guy in need of tonic," he shot back.
"Females are notorious creature " I said, sipping my beer. "The pretty ones, especially. My type is just hard to find."
Sam chuckled, shaking his head. "You're 41, Loren. Gonna spend the rest of your life married to a cigarette pack?"
"Better than being nagged to death," I quipped. "At least my cigarettes don't complain when I light one."
He laughed and gulped his beer. "My wife's been on my case again. Says I'm too married to the job."
"At least you have someone, Sam. Look at me. A wrinkled old detective with nothing but takeout menus and a recliner that squeaks louder than a confession."
"Buddy, you should find someone. Someone to pester you in all the right ways." Sam gave me a pat on the back.
I blew out another puff of smoke, letting the nicotine steady my nerves. "Another round?"
"Hell no," he groaned. "My wife'll kill me if I stumble in smelling like a brewery again. She's a nag, but she's a clean nag."
Sam, predictably, drank himself into a stupor. I drove him home, as always, to his picture-perfect suburban life: a wife, Anne, who met me at the door with a forced smile, and two kids who looked like they belonged in a cereal commercial.
"Thanks, Loren," Anne said. Then she turned on Sam. "Who the hell told you to drink so much?"
Sam groaned from the passenger seat, half-conscious. "Anne, not in front of Loren..."
"Anne, he's just tired. Long day," I interjected, trying to defuse the tension.
"Right." She softened slightly, but her irritation lingered. "Drive safe, Mr. Hoffman."
"Good night, Mrs. Waltman."
Anne was a lovely creature. Brown hair, brown eyes, an earthy prettiness that hovered around a solid seven on a good day. She was the type of wife who packed lunches and left love notes, but her temper could fill a room. Still, they worked. A match made in a chaotic kind of heaven.
I got back into my car and drove toward my own house. The dark, winding roads of Los Angeles never got easier to navigate. New city, new life—it was still a work in progress.
The radio crackled to life, and Forever Young by Alphaville played. I hummed along, letting the familiar melody carry me home.
But then the music stopped.
A news bulletin cut in, the voice stark and emotionless: "Breaking news: A 40-year-old woman has been arrested, suspected in 39 murders. Authorities discovered her basement filled with jars—39 of them—each containing a pair of human eyeballs."
I pulled over, heart pounding. The cigarette I'd lit trembled slightly in my hand as I stepped out of the car to let the cool night air hit me.
"Well, violent case."
I took a long drag, exhaled, and muttered to myself, "Well... that's one for the books."
The phone buzzed in my pocket.
It was my boss. "Hoffman. You heard about the case?"
"Yes, sir."
"Well, you're my guy. No one else I trust to take this."
I stared at the glowing end of my cigarette, the embers reflecting the long night ahead.
"No sleep tonight," I murmured.
I got back into the car and drove into the city's darkness, knowing that what lay ahead would demand more than just another beer or cigarette to escape.