Benton Broken
an excerpt

The sun had just barely risen. A pale autumnal light shone in through the old, yellowing slats of a Venetian blind, casting striped shadows across a small table. There, with a large, red mug full of gently steaming coffee in his right hand, and a thick novel open under his left, he sat alone. It was hardly surprising, considering that was the way he lived as well. He looked to be in his thirties, though one could not be entirely sure by looking at him. He could have just as easily been in his late twenties. Either way, though, it didn't really matter. He was still solidly in the prime of his life, and more than able to support himself comfortably. Not that earning a sufficient living was all that hard, given the way he preferred living.

He slowly lifted the mug to his lips. The coffee released an extra puff of steam, and with that cloud came its blessed aroma. He turned the page, shifting his position slightly as his eye jumped to the top of page 153. Just a page and a half more until the end of the chapter. Then he'd stop, hard though that would be. The old classics were the best, though he would read most anything if it was of good quality. Of course, he had a firmly set view on what exactly consisted of "good quality," and it was hardly easy to persuade him otherwise. But once he was convinced of a work of fiction's literary status, he would be more than happy to read it through with a minimal number of interruptions.

The coffee mug was slowly set back down on the table with the satisfying bump of ceramic against wood. A clock in the corner was faithfully ticking away the seconds, and the minute hand was moving unhurried toward the top of the clock. He glanced up. Quarter 'til... More than enough time to finish his chapter. His eyes dropped once more to the book.

He had about a paragraph left when the phone rang. It startled him at first. No one ever called before seven. Friends rarely called before eight, though even after eight a phone call unrelated to his work was more or less unusual. Even the most impatient customers generally waited until eight thirty, or at least near to that time. He had requested as much every time he had given out his contact information. But no one ever called in the hour of six AM. For a moment he wasn't entirely sure that he had heard it at all.

The phone rang again.

The novel fell closed with a quiet thump, and he reached back towards the counter for the phone.

"Hello? This is John Riell. May I ask who's calling?" He spoke slowly, deliberately.
/"John! I was hoping this was your number."/

"Seth." The word was spoken with the same slowness as before, but this time the slightest tinge of friendliness accompanied it. He even seemed to relax a little, slumping back into his seat and idly playing with the tassel of his bookmark. "I imagine you have a reason to call...?"

/"Yeah. See, I'm in the middle of a case that I think you'd probably be interested in."/

He did not answer immediately. His grey eyes were fixed straight ahead beneath short, dark bangs. His fingers which had formerly thrummed evenly on the table were stilled. His lips were set in a hard line. "I haven't been on the Force for a year and a half, Seth." The friendliness had faded again, not quite to the extent it had earlier, but it was still cold, hurt, almost.

/"I know that. There's times it's painfully obvious."/ The voice on the other end of the phone sounded hurt for a moment itself. /"But you're more than welcome back here."/

John remained silent at first, though a pensive scowl had made itself at home in his face. "But at the moment I'm a civilian. A member of the general public. The general public doesn't get to know whatever they want to know about a case."

/"I know that too. That's why you've got a pass. Or at least you will by the time you get up here."/

"Don't you mean if I get up there?"

/"If, when... you know what I mean. Besides, until you do, I can't tell you much about the case other than the fact that it's a murder. A man was found dead with three bullet holes in him."/

"Three." The word was neither a statement nor a question, but some strange entity that dared to exist between the two. Riell shifted forwards on his seat slightly.

/"Yeah. Hey, I've got to run now. Just do me a favor and think about it, would you? And call before you drive up here, too."/

"I'll do that."

He dropped the phone from his ear and returned it to its place on the counter. Several seconds passed before he moved again. His scowl had returned, and remained as he resumed his place at the table. The steam still rose from his coffee in twisting columns, and his book still lay open to page 154. Hardbacks were nice that way. It didn't help him concentrate, though. Despite his best efforts, he was barely listening to the book's words as he finished the last paragraph. He had caught himself staring off into space through the twin spirals of his coffee's steam more than once, and more than once he had wrestled unwilling eyes back down to the page. He did finish, though, and once he was done, he mechanically dropped a bookmark into place and slowly closed the book.

Five minutes later, his mug was sitting in the sink half-full of water and surrounded by the other dishes from the morning's routine. His book was still planted on the table where it had been closed, one corner illuminated by the autumn sunlight that pushed its way through the blinds. He was standing in the shadows that shrouded his entryway, pushing his arms through the sleeves of a red sweatshirt before tossing the same garment's hood over his brown hair. A moment later, his front door fell shut with the rattle and clatter common to century old houses as he was making his way down an uneven walkway towards an old sedan. His gait was uneven, and had been for a over a year now. He mostly ignored it, much like he tried to do to the circumstances surrounding the injury. It wasn't anything crippling, and it hardly even slowed him down any more. It wouldn't slow anyone with a stride as long as his. He certainly didn't seem to be hindered by it, at any rate. But regardless, the limp was there, and there was pain as well at times.