Someone Smoked a Joint

Mike nudged the body with his shoe, “What do we got here boys?”

A young lieutenant, still fresh faced and out of the academy, read out of his note book. “Frank Ferriday, age 36, gunshot wound to the head. There was a Colt .45 in his hand when we got here. The boys downtown are already checking on its registration. No signs of a struggle or forced entry. Looks to be a suicide.”

Shaking his head in disbelief Mike asked, “When did you get the call?”

“At 8:35pm, about an hour ago. Mrs. Stablinsky reported hearing a gun shot. Sergeant Powell was on a beat a few blocks away from here, he’s reporting his statement now.”

“This was no suicide,” Mike said as he bent down to pick something up.

“Excuse me sir?”

“I know Frank; we shared a foxhole in the war. He would have givin his life to save mine and I would have done the same. Maybe he has hit some hard times., but he would never give in to drugs again. I helped him through rehab, dragged him kicking and screaming. Once he was clean he swore that he would never go back. Frank has never gone back on his word.”

Mike opened his hand to show the lieutenant a small roll of white paper that was burnt on one end. “Someone smoked a joint here. That someone killed Frank Ferriday. When I find out who that someone is they will wish that they never took up drugs. They will wish that they never met Frank. They will wish that Frank never met me. Even if it’s the last thing I ever do, I will get vengeance on Frank’s killer. My buddy’s killer.