A rookie detective sees his veteran partner take a small stack of bills from a crime scene.

The place was a shithole. Had been one long before we’d shown up and put a hole through anything still standing. The pimp had been running girls for a long time. We’d chase him, find an apartment or old old building he’d taken, turned into a fly-by-night brothel, but always miss him. Normally he’d leave a few momentos though; old needles, porcelain bowls stuffed with condoms. The girls who didn’t quite make it through another night.

Deichman still held his six-shooter, a relic passed down through a family of lawmen. He hadn’t shouted police. Hadn’t even knocked. He’d kicked the door down and unloaded on the bastard before I’d even cleared the hall.

The guy was dead and I almost felt sorry for him.

“Check the back,” Deichman said.

The room was fresh. Meaning he’d only just moved in, getting ready to set up shop. A stack of mattresses stood against the wall in one of the bedrooms. Deichman had tipped out a small candy jar, previously filled to the rim with condoms, when I came back. He was stuffing it with notes.

“Chuck,” I said.

He didn’t pause. Didn’t stop. He just kept on filling the bowl, robbing a dead man.

“This ain’t right. This ain’t righteous.”

For an old guy, he was standing and pointing an angry weapon in my face faster than I could have drawn my own. Six weeks I’d been on the job. Coming from the sidewalks, I’d learnt to avoid the bribes. The easy money to cross the street and turn a blind eye. But this was another level.

“We’ve gotta call this in,” I said.

Deichman hit me. He swung the heavy metal revolver into my head and sent me sprawling next to the pimp. I just sat there, fingers scraping on the rough wood floor, trying to avoid the corpse.

“If you take the money, I’m gonna have to report it.”

He’d returned to filling the bowl, but paused. He picked it up, half full, and tucked it under one arm. He hefted the revolver, flipped it in his palm and held it out to me. I snatched it up, shaking. He smiled as I aimed it at him.

He turned and walked out, whistling a tune from an old spaghetti western. My arms dropped soon after. From the weight. From the shame. I didn’t know.

I couldn’t touch the body or the money or anything else in the room. I called it in and waited for the shirts.


Prompt originally posted by Unknown on reddit and received 9 upvotes.

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