Broken Angels

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In his dream they are still alive. In his dream they have blossomed into beautiful young women with careers and homes and families of their own. In his dream they shimmer beneath a golden sun.

Detective Walter Brigham opened his eyes, his heart a cold and bitter stone in his chest. He glanced at the clock, although it was unnecessary. He knew what time it was: 3:50 AM. It was the exact moment he had gotten the call six years earlier, the dividing line by which he had measured every day prior, and every day since.

Seconds earlier, in the dream, he had been standing at the edge of the forest, the spring rain an icy shroud over his world. Now he lay awake in his bedroom in West Philadelphia, a layer of sweat covering his body, the only sound his wife's rhythmic breathing.

In his time, Walt Brigham had seen many things. He had once seen a drug case defendant try to eat his own flesh in a courtroom. Another time he'd found the body of a monstrous man named Joseph Barber- pedophile, rapist, murderer-lashed to a steam pipe in a North Philly tenement, a decomposing corpse with thirteen knives in its chest. He had once seen a veteran homicide detective sitting on a curb in Brewery- town, quiet tears etching his face, a bloodied baby shoe in his hand. That man was John Longo, Walt Brigham's partner. That case was Johnny's.

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