The Damascus Chronicles by Dominic R. Daniels

report after the autopsy.”
    “Yeah, I guess you’re right. Ballistics will match the bullet shells to the casing book they have, and they’ll give us the report later,” said Jack.
    “Anyway, the police commissioner wants to see us later to report in, but first let’s head to the funeral. They’ll probably have good food for breakfast after the service,” said Watson.
    “Is all you can think about is your stomach? How can you want to eat anything after seeing that?” The two hopped into Frank’s squad car to proceed to Saint Mark’s abbey for Fitzgerald and Scalipelli’s service.
    Inside the church abbey the dull and melancholy sounds of the old brass pipe organ sung a sad hymn as the procession of Las Vegas’ finest entered the church, shaking hands and passing out hellos. Father Paul Sullivan, a handsome middle-aged priest, approached the pulpit to speak a few words. “Dearly beloved family members and friends, we gather here today on this day to remember and honor the lives of two great officers, Larry Fitzgerald and Joseph Scalipelli. These two officers fought valiantly to save the lives of the people coming home on the interstate a week ago when a shoot-out occurred on the highway that caused them to lose their lives in an accident caused by violence. It is sad for us to lose these two men, men of honor who showed their duty to their community and to their loved ones. Tragedy seems to be a daily occurrence today now that murder has become so common. It is such a sad thing to see that human life has grown cheap in our fair city, a city that was once a family city, now gone down hill. However, through all of this we still stand vigilant in the face of our God who is with us each and every day. Let us pray for these two souls who have left this world to be with our God through his Son our Lord Jesus Christ. Our Father who art in Heaven….”
    As Father Paul continued the service, Jack and Frank sat in the back row of the church, talking about the families of the deceased men.
    “Damn shame about what happened to those two guys. They were just kids, rookies. They both just got married a few months ago. Their wives must being going out of their minds with grief,” said Frank sadly.
    “Good lord, we have to do something about this; every day things are getting worse; we lost nine men last week,” said Jack.
    “Too many guys are taking bribes and not standing up for the ones who are clean.”
    “The department is going to hell.”
    An hour had passed and the service came to an end. “Come on; let’s go give our condolences to the widows,” said Jack, just as Father Paul finished speaking.
    Jack and Frank walked up the aisle with the other officers to give their sympathy to the widows. Frank first spoke to Marsha, the widow of Fitzgerald. After hugging her and the other widow, he told them, “Don’t cry too hard, we’ll get the bastards who did this. Justice will be served, I’ll see to it.”
    The two widows nodded sadly as the family members of both slain officers proceeded to carry the caskets to the graveyard outside. Once the service was over the two officers headed to the station to report to Commissioner Hamilton.
    Back at police headquarters, Commissioner Sarah Brooke Hamilton sat in her cluttered office, her desk stacked to the sky with homicide and drug raid reports. The one window in her office was cracked and a dead plant sat on the grimy windowsill. The commissioner was a young and beautiful woman of 33. She had long black curly hair and wore a beige long coat and dress pants; she had beautiful legs, blue eyes, a cute nose, and lovely red lips. Upon the death of her father, the former commissioner, she had been voted into office.
    Frustrated and upset, she called in Frank Watson and Jack Harris.
    “Harris, Watson get in here.”
    “Easy Commissioner, down girl,” joked Frank.
    “Don’t patronize me Frank. What do you have on those two corpses from midtown on the Thirty-fourth?”