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looks out over the sea of cameras and reporters glued to the edges of Tranquillity Drive where this modern-day-Christchurch drama is unfolding. All the streets in this subdivision have similar names. Serenity Street. Harmony Drive. It’s as if the council sent in a psychiatrist tanked up on Prozac to name them all.
    Watching the media, he thinks about his cancer. He decides that learning he was dying takes the award for worst day of his life, making this one the second. Cancer and the media – he hates them both. Thinking of the black death running through his veins makes him tired, irritable, and he suddenly has the desire to set fire to every camera and microphone within a kilometre radius. Everywhere he looks a reporter is talking to a camera or fixing their hair in front of a mirror. He wonders how attractive they’d look if he took them single file through the bedroom and showed them first-hand what rocked Charlie Feldman’s world.
    He puts his hand in his pocket and clutches the piece of evidence that is keeping him calm. So far he’s the only person who knows about it. He hasn’t told anybody about the bloodstained piece of paper because when he’s surrounded by news vans and reporters he knows a media leak is highly possible. Already they seem to know more than they ought to.
    The cancer has been demanding all day that he makes this his last case, and finally he’s starting to listen. Anyway he’s going to be busy over the next six months, his days filled up by slow dying. He wants to finish his career on a high note. He wants what he’s never had in his eighteen years in the police force – appreciation, recognition, respect. He wants to close this case by himself. What the hell else does he have to look forward to? He lives almost alone, his only companions a pot-plant cactus and a disease. His biggest expenses are the two poisons he pumps into his body – the chemo and the cigarettes. One will keep him alive for a while longer. The other will keep him serene.
    He takes his hand off the plastic bag and peels his shirt away from his body, letting some air flow beneath it. He can’t remember ever sweating this much. He isn’t sure whether it’s the heat, the cancer or the medication. At night the sweats are cold. This used to be his favourite time of the day because normally he’d be sipping a beer and watching TV. Now he’s one statistic trying to solve another. In the distance a dog is barking, and a few moments later it is joined by another and another.
    The voices around him fall silent as two men carrying a stretcher leave the house and walk carefully towards a black stationwagon. He can almost hear the cameras rolling. The shape of her body pushes at the sides of the bodybag. The bag looks too small. This woman was full of life, she had dreams and memories, she had a career, she had a husband. It makes no sense that a woman with so much can fit into a black zippered bag so small. He wants to look away but can’t. None of them can. They all stand transfixed, silent as they pay their respects to the victim and promise they will find who did this.
    Once she is loaded into the stationwagon they all turn away and carry on working. Landry smears more sweat away from his face with his palm. Dozens of tiny insects fill the air in front of him. He swipes a hand through the little bastards and a gap appears in the middle, then the cloud reforms itself. Where death goes the insects and bugs are quick to follow. That’s the nature of nature. He’s thankful that the sun has gone but it’ll be back tomorrow as strong as ever. He closes his eyes and pictures his body covered in melanomas. The spots look like small bee stings.
    Everybody has been spoken to, at both crime scenes. Longer interviews will take place tomorrow. Every contact in the address and appointment books will be questioned. At the other house a witness reported seeing a white Honda parked up the driveway of the dead woman’s house in the