Soft Around the Edges

Twenty-two years on the force. The last twelve as a homicide detective. A murder police, that's what he'd called himself. His wife hated that term. Said it made him sound ignorant, and he was anything but ignorant. He was well-educated and well-read; he could have been a teacher, if he'd been willing to leave behind the hard-edged world of criminal investigation.

He'd never looked like a cop. Short, pudgy, glasses. And he'd never been interested in the more viscerally exciting parts of police work. Making drug arrests, kicking in doors, high speed chases...he was willing to leave that to the others. He liked seeing more than acting, knowing more than doing. And nobody saw better or knew more than a murder police.

After twenty-two years, he'd seen enough and knew too much. When he retired he stopped wearing his glasses around the house. He'd had enough of hard edges. He wanted the rest of his days to be a little more soft.