A/N: Ficlet, written for the Megan Wheeler ficlet journal I maintain on LJ. Read and review, please. Thanks!
The relief of a closed case is possibly one of my favorite feelings. Knowing a problem—a crime—has been solved, knowing that I had a part in it, makes my job worthwhile.
And yet at the end of each case, my relief is never 100. There's something always missing, something I tell myself I can't pinpoint, but deep down I know the root of it.
The reason I became a cop.
I may tell you if you ask in passing that I became a cop for the intellectual nature of crime solving or for a nobler cause like justice.
That's true in a roundabout way. Mostly, it's bullshit.
I never fully have relief at the end of the day…and sometimes I think I never will.
I've started to find out bits and pieces of what happened to my father.
He was a criminal. He may have been a victim.
I don't deal often with victims. I deal with factual evidence, leads, things that are tangible and yet cold enough to distance myself from.
My partner doesn't give a damn about why a crime is committed and while I may be slightly more caring than he is, I'm learning.
To survive, you can't get too close. If you get too close, you become the victim. That's how people get shot. That's how people become obsessed.
I'm not obsessed. I just want relief.