imageCathy Barber
The Show

I love my crime show. The theme song. The body first discovered bloody and twisted oddly in the alley near a dumpster, stockings around the ankles, one shoe missing and the weapon nowhere to be found. The detectives tsk then look over the shoulders of the crime scene photographer and ask questions out of the corners of their mouths. Cut to the m.e.’s office, the body, always on its back, toes and head push the blue sheet up in familiar bumps. X-rays clipped over back lights on the wall. The sheet is pulled back and entry and exit wounds explained, time of death estimated. Then the suspects in the detectives’ sights, one after another, the theories, the brow beating, the lies exposed in the examination room, the department head watching through the one-way mirror. Finally the cuffs and you have the right to remain silent and pushing the perp roughly through the door to all that awaits him and the knowledge that justice has at least been done. The victim’s loved ones cry but justice has at least been done. The theme song creeps into the background, credits pressed to a corner of the screen. The eleven o’clock anchor interrupts with his lead; another girl is missing. And I make my way to bed.