Me and the Detectives, Part 1
You can't judge an apple by looking at the tree,
You can't judge honey by looking at the bee,
You can't judge a daughter by looking at the
mother,
You can't judge a book by looking at the cover[1]
August 2008
Me and the Detectives
When I heard the knocking at the
door—the first time the cops came to my house—I was still a little groggy from
an afternoon nap. I glanced at my watch as I got up from the couch; it
was three-twenty in the afternoon. CNN was still running on the TV (old habits
die hard) and I vaguely heard something about some poor child missing in the
Orlando area before the second set of knocks—these louder and longer. I
assumed it was some asshole trying to sell me something or tell me I should
find Jesus. My first inclination was to jump up, open the door and tell
whoever was standing there to Go the fuck away, but my life had changed
over the last 20 years, with the help of various anti-depressants and
medication, and I realized whoever was out there was just trying to make a
living, or perhaps find reward or salvation in what they were doing.
I opened the door to find two men:
One was from the Broward County Sheriff Office, and the other guy was a local
detective from the Lake Flagler Police Department . . continue
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