Where the Sun Sets
Chapter 8
Retired now for thirteen years, Harold Davis sat at his kitchen table. Always an
early riser, he was showered and dressed before seven every morning. Widowed the past
spring, his life had come to a halt of sorts. There was not much for him to
do anymore. Breakfast consisted of a cinnamon bun and a cup of extra black coffee. He
read his daily paper at the table as he had for the past thirteen years. And, as they
say, old habits die hard, he always opened to the crime blotter first. A small article
on "out of town connections," immediately caught his eye.
"Antonia Dal Santo, saved as a small child from the hands of a monster. Gunned
down by a crazed fan. One of our own, Ms. Dal Santo has spent numerous years abroad.
After finishing her education at St. Agnes School for girls, she became a missionary
and devoted several years to the Literacy Awareness Program in Africa. She returned to
the States, to aid her friend and school mate, Josephine Ferrero. This had made her an
instant favorite of the press. Ms. Dal Santo continually ducked the cameras and tried
to stay out of sight but she could never escape the media attention attracted by
Ms. Ferrero. While the shooting is still under investigation, it is believed to be the
work of an angered fan. Ms. Dal Santo was shot four times and was listed in stable
condition at the time of print. It has been reported that Ms. Dal Santo was
approximately four months pregnant at the time of the shooting. The pregnancy was
terminated. New Haven Police Chief Officer Burns, states that any charges involved in
this case, will include the murder of Ms. Dal Santo's unborn child."
Harold stood up, a little too fast, toppling his morning coffee. It ran over the
table and dripped onto the floor. He never noticed, as he walked hastily to his home
office. The first floor of his Cape Cod style home had one single bedroom. It had
served as a guest room for the first twenty-five years they owned the home. It had
only been used a handful of times. His wife had it converted into an office for him
when he became Chief Inspector. The walls were covered with frames holding awards,
certificates or photos of Harold receiving an award or a certificate.
His career was long and hard, but Harold would not have traded it for anything in
the world. He had often commented that had he ever won the lottery, he would never give
up his job. He tried his best to stay on at the station even after he had reached the
required age for retirement. However, time was not always on the side of the Inspector
and he was replaced and put out to pasture.
Harold folded his morning paper so that the article was the center focal point.
He placed the paper on the center of his desk top and sat down. Flipping through his
Rolodex, he dialed the phone. The line he was connected to was busy. Placing his
reading glasses on the tip of his nose, he again glanced at the number. Again he
dialed the phone. Once again he got a busy signal. Replacing the receiver, he sat back
thoughtfully. His extra-large, leather upholstered swivel chair was a gift, from the
guys at the station, when he retired. He stood and headed for the filing cabinet. He
opened the first drawer. Nine files, letters A thru I, he flipped through to the file
index marked "D." He laid it flat on the open drawer. Searching for Dal Santo but not
finding it, he replaced the index. He tapped the sides of the drawer with his hands,
as he searched for an answer, with his eyes scanning the office.
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