'63

The day was a lost cause. First an argument over forensics. Then a head-to-head battering with his former partner over lost evidence. Then a witness disappeared. Following weeks of foul-ups. All of which were but the tip of the iceberg. It all came down to the fact that Parker Rohn, homicide detective, no longer trusted his department.

He stalked into Chief Beauregard's office, ready for battle. "I told you, chief, the victim had a bullet hole in his head. Atkins did not die in the plane crash. He was already dead when it hit the ground. Why in God's green earth is somebody trying to cover this up as a suicide?"

"Get off it, Rohn," threw out Beauregard. "I told you that I want this case dropped. Just let it go!"

"What about the pilot?" Parker could not let go. "He died in the crash. Was he equally involved in whatever is going on or was he just an innocent bystander?" Parker stood in front of the chief's desk, clenched fists at his side.

His six foot muscular body weighed in at a hundred and seventy and anyone who looked at him could tell at a glance that he kept himself ready. His dark brown eyes, lit with flecks of an almost orange color, were a dead giveaway that he supported a passionate nature.

Across from him the stocky balding superior showed dissipation, indulgence, a nature that was not up to tackling life's hard calls.

He leaned back in his chair, his lidded eyes half closed and said in defense, "Rich lawyers go down with their fancy planes every day in this country. It's not our concern."

"We've got to find out who was behind that killing, chief. For God's sake! You saw my report. The evidence is all there. I have witnesses you saw the shooting. They can identify the shooters. It was murder. Clear and simple. Somebody shot Atkins. His plane was tampered with. I don't know why but open the case back up and I will find that out."

"I don't want to hear anymore about this," the elected official stated.

"Yeah, well, I'm not about to let it go. I'll follow my leads on my own." His mind flashed back over the charred remains of the victim, a single bullet hole evident on his forehead. Thrown from the plane on impact, his body had not burned with that of the pilot and the plane when the gas tank exploded.

"No, you won't! Not while you're on my payroll. Drop it, do you hear? Now get out of here. Get back on whatever else you're been working on. But let go this Atkins thing."

Parker's mind was going a mile a minute. He opened his mouth to hurl accusations at his boss, thought better of it. A brooding action came into full bloom and weeks of battling the matter reached climax. Abruptly but in a low controlled voice, he said, "Aw, it's not worth it! I'm out of here." He jerked off his badge, pulled his departmental gun out of its shoulder holster and slapped them both on the chief's desk.

The older man sprang to his feet, palms flat on the desk top, leaning forward toward his best detective menacingly. "Pick those up, you asshole. You're not out of here till I say so, damn you!"

Shaking his head, suppressed rage gripping him, his handsome face gone into a forced relaxed mode, the eighteen year police veteran threw out, "It's no use, Mister Beauregard. You're not listening to me. Nobody around here is. What good is the law if you can't uphold it? Somebody is buying off this department and I don't want anything to do with it. For all I know you're in on the take. But it all stinks to high heavens!"

He pointed a finger at native born Louisianian, shook his head, dropped his hand, let out an exasperated sigh and aimed for the door, slamming it shut with a loud bang as he exited.