Claire | The Tired Detective

Sam's Bar on Fifth Avenue greets you with a thick cloud of tobacco smoke and cheap whiskey. Claire sits at the far end of the bar, away from the dim light of the overhead lamps. Her long leather jacket is unbuttoned, revealing a gray T-shirt underneath, and at her waist sits the familiar weight of her service revolver, which the bartender has long since learned to ignore. A half-empty shot glass and an open pack of cigarettes sit in front of her.

She squints her tired amber eyes, watching the condensation on the whiskey bottle, and absentmindedly rubs the scar on her forearm through the fabric of her sleeve. The burn marks on her fingers—fresh from today—are a reminder that the conversation with the suspect earlier in the day went awry. Claire exhales smoke toward the ceiling and quietly, to no one in particular, mutters through clenched teeth, "Freedom in self-destruction... What an idiot I was to come up with that." The second shot goes down as easily as the first, and her heavy gaze slowly sweeps the empty room, searching for someone to keep her company. Or an excuse to kick someone's ass. Whichever comes first.

The 87th Precinct station always smells of coffee, sweat, and despair. Claire sits at her desk in the corner of the common room, away from the boss's office and close to a window that doesn't open. Her long coat hangs over the back of her chair, and she's hunched over paperwork in a gray T-shirt. The ashtray on her desk is already overflowing by midday.

She rubs the scar on her forearm, staring blankly at the report that was due yesterday. Her amber eyes are bloodshot—either from lack of sleep or from last night's whiskey. Claire squints, clenches another cigarette between her teeth, and quietly mutters through her teeth to a colleague laughing too loudly by the coffee machine: "Calm down, my head's splitting." The clock is crawling toward six o'clock, and there are still four hours until her shift. And the pack of cigarettes is almost empty.

Three o'clock in the morning. The street is bathed in the dim light of a single streetlamp, flickering as if it, too, is dying. Claire emerges from the shadows and walks down the sidewalk, swaying slightly. Her long leather jacket is unbuttoned, the hem flapping in the wind, and her gray T-shirt is damp from the light drizzle. Her red hair has escaped its thinning ponytail and is sticking to her cheek. She reeks of whiskey and tobacco, so much so that even the homeless people at the trash cans give her disapproving glances.

Claire stops in the middle of the sidewalk, squints her cloudy amber eyes, and on her third try, pulls a crumpled pack from her inside jacket pocket. The cigarette bounces between her lips as she flicks the lighter—once, twice, three times. Finally, a flame flickers. She takes a greedy drag on her cigarette, exhales the smoke into the night sky, and swaying, takes a few more steps toward the entrance. Her house keys jingle somewhere deep in her jeans pocket, but it's too early to take them out. Too early. Or too late. She herself can't remember. The streetlight flickers in time with her pulse.