{As an experiment, I challenged myself to write this story from a second person perspective in present tense. Chapters are still being added.}
Content warning: Some chapters contain graphic descriptions of torture and sexual assault.
Friday, 08/12/2025, 0825
You follow Tristan to the official vehicle only parking lot behind the main building of the sheriff’s office complex. You park next to him in spaces reserved for detectives. The detectives work in a separate building between the sheriff’s heliport and the main building.
Tristan waits for you next to his car.
“Don’t forget to hang your placard,” they say as you reach them.
You blow out a breath, shake your head, and walk back to your car. From the glove box, you dig out the orange and white placard that identifies your vehicle as an official police vehicle and hang it from your rearview mirror. Then you walk back over to Tristan.
They say, “I remember you mentioned it when we left the ME’s office.”
You shrug. “No big deal. I should have thought of it myself. It’s up there now. At least I won’t get towed.”
The pair of you walk to the detectives’ office building. Tristan uses a keycard to open the door.
“I’ll get you another one of these. Even if you still have your old one, it won’t work anymore.”
Only half the desks are occupied. Budget cuts have left the detective ranks drastically thinned. Hence why they need you.
Tristan waves you to the vacant desk across from his. “You can use that desk while you’re on this case.”
He picks up his phone. “I’m calling IT to get you a password and have them prep you a keycard for the door.”
You nod and walk to your desk. The layer of dust makes you snort. A thin film covers the reading lamp, the blotter, the landline phone, the laptop cover, and the larger screen you’ll use when at the desk.
Coffee stains decorate the blotter. You turn on the lamp and discover there is no bulb. At least the landline phone has a dial tone when you pick it up.
You open the slim, silver laptop and press the on/off key. Nothing happens. A quick glance shows you the charging cable is disconnected. You find the plug end, plug it into an outlet, and then plug the USB-C end into the laptop’s charging port.
Tristan hangs up the phone and hands you a sticky note. “When you get it running, here’s your password. You should be able to access all the apps you’ll need for this case.”
“I’ll try it after the laptop charges some. It’s dead right now. There’s no bulb in the desk lamp either.”
Tristan rolls his eyes. “See if you can steal one from one of the other vacant desks.”
You find one in the lamp of the third desk you search. None of the few other detectives in the place give you a second look. The bulb throws light onto your desk when you install it in your lamp, bringing the dust into sharp relief.
“Any wipes around here?” you ask Tristan.
Tristan looks up from his computer. “Check the desk drawers.”
The desk looks like a standard gray, metal military issue desk with one wide, shallow lap drawer and three drawers of increasing size going down each side. Knowing it unlikely that the lap drawer will have a package of wipes in it, you explore it first anyway. Other than dust and a few random paperclips, it’s empty. The top drawers on either side are in the same condition.
In the middle drawer on the left, you hit pay dirt. Only, it’s an old container and the wipes dry. Further searching reveals nothing of interest. Not even an old pencil or errant file folder.
You stand up and lift the container of dry wipes from the desk. “I’ll be right back,” you tell Tristan. “Just need some water.”
The room that the desks you and Tristan are using contains two other pairs of desks and a row of filing cabinets, all in the same style as your desk. Only one of the other desks is occupied, but two others show signs of recent habitation. A middle-aged female detective with short hair, dark skin, and a scowl sits at the occupied desk.
“What’s up?” you say to her as you walk past her desk on your way to the breakroom. She ignores you.
In the breakroom, the smell of overcooked coffee assails your nostrils. You walk over to the coffeemaker, remove the empty carafe with the burned coffee lining the bottom, and turn the machine off.
“Hey, Bodine. Around here, the last person to take a cup makes the next pot.”
You know that voice, not that you’re happy to hear it. You turn around.
“The last person who got a cup forgot the rule, or left so little in the pot that it cooked off and burned. I wonder who could have done such a thing.”
Detective Nick Blanton sneered at you. “I have no idea, Bodine. Just like I have no idea what you’re doing here.”
You smile your least sincere smile. “If you needed to know, someone would have included you on the memo, Nick. You still working vice, getting tips from your sister?”
“Screw you, Bodine. You still working with the enby?”
Your smile morphs from insincere to menacing. “Poor Nick. Still hasn’t learned any manners. Still a poor damn redneck piece of white trash with a badge.”
Nick reaches past you and picks up the now cooled carafe. “Good to know you haven’t gone soft, Bodine.”
He retrieves a can of Comet cleanser from under the sink and cleans the carafe.
You remind yourself not to drink coffee made in the breakroom. You also spot two containers of wipes under the sink and help yourself to one.
Back at your desk, Tristan asks what took you so long.
“Just trading insults with Blanton,” you tell him before opening the container of wipes and cleaning your desk.
Next Chapter (Open to Free Subscribers) →
©2026 DW Davis All Rights Reserved
If you’d like to show how much you enjoyed this article you can …
Access all future Earl Bodine stories with a Free Subscription to Beach Story Writing Dog Dad.
You can show your support for the Earl Bodine Detective Agency for just $2 per month, a 60% discount off the regular subscription rate.
If one payment a year is more your speed, take advantage of the annual discount of 60% off the yearly subscription rate and your ticket to great stories will only be $20 once a year.