Detective Frederick Sharpesong shoved a handcuffed man into the Clairemon St. Police Station. A spooked horse's hooves slammed against the sidewalk pavement next to his foot as the carriage driver attempted to control him. An automobile honked twice as it shot by, and all the other horses on the street began to whinny and buck.
"Damn things should be outlawed," Sharpe said. He ducked into the building, and kicked the door shut. His boot left a dust print on the dark, carved wood, and the frazzled horse's panic was muted. He grabbed hold of the criminal and hoisted him up from the floor. "Stop wiggling."
A rookie hurried over, vest unbuttoned and tie undone. He handed Sharpe a cup of black coffee.
"Hey!" said the criminal as he pulled against the detective's grip. Sharpe spilled the steaming contents of the cup onto his arm and the floor. "Why am I here?"
Sharpe handed the cup back to the rookie and beat the excess coffee off his coat sleeve. He looked at the man, cobalt blue eyes narrowed, one twitching. The color drained from the man's face.
"You're still sore about losing your hat?" he asked, eyes wide. "It was an accident!"
Sharpe started to drag him to the front to get him logged in before he went to a holding cell.
"Why are you being so mean to me?" he whined.
"Why?" Sharpe pushed the man against the desk, the edge dug into his chest. "Honestly?"
"But, but... I haven't done anything wrong!" His voice squeaked as he squirmed under Sharpe's grip.
The detective removed his gloves as the uniformed desk clerk set a short stack of blank paperwork on the desk.
"So this is the guy, huh?" He handed Sharpe a pen. "What did the body count reach?"
"Six elementary school children. Thre dogs. Two cats. A guinea pig," Sharpe elbowed the murderer in the ribs. "And one cup of coffee."
The handcuffed man dropped to the floor and kicked the bottom of the desk, whining again.
"Get up off the floor!" Sharpe pinched the bridge of his nose, then signed the paper without looking.
"I got 'im boss." An officer grabbed hold of the whimpering murderer.
Sharpe muttered as he leaned heavily on the desk, relieved to get some of the weight off his feet. He had been on the move since before dawn, so even his athletic build felt like too much.
"I think this is the longest you have ever taken to catch a psychopath, Sharpe," said the desk clerk, a grin passing his lips. "Maybe you're losing your edge!"
Sharpe's shoulders pulled up as his features pinched together. He forced out an airless laugh.
"But you know it would be a record," said the desk clerk, unaware of the pointed look he was getting from Sharpe. "A genius detective over the hump at age twenty five!"
"Yes, that certainly would be a tragedy." Sharpe turned and walked toward the elevators. "Neve mind you never even got on the hump, tubby." He stuffed his gloves into his pocket and pressed the call button for the elevator. The gate rattled as the cage dropped. Sharpe checked his pocket watch as he stepped on.
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