In retrospect we never thought that our actions would have such a large impact on the little town of Killowen as it did.   Sure it was a high-profile, and more importantly for my colleague, a grisly tale, except that of course, the tale was yet to be told, at least the whole story. Christopher somehow had the most brilliant ability to treat every case the same, as boring as daily life or washing the dishes on a Friday night.  I on the other hand, was, by my own admission, completely captivated by the sheer thrill of it all, the moment when we walked out of the courthouse together, another case solved, a celebratory drink, the sharp clink of the bottles, and then we did it all again.  An endless cycle of ecstasy and justice. 

Christopher opened the briefcase. Or rather, he ripped it open, the quick slash used to startle me at first, but I have long since gotten used to it, a different case every time, but the same case in a way.

The document featured a newspaper article and a few notes on yellow paper, of course at Christopher's request. The headline read: "SINGER BRUTALLY STABBED". Christopher held a hand to his face, deep in thought, his elbow perched onto the sturdy wooden table, of course he couldn't just sit down, that would be too easy, not to mention, ordinary. 

Over the next hour, we took phrases from the article, transferring them to a large blackboard hung on one wall of the room, the powdered chalk dusting our fingers and filling the air with a cloud of dust.  I read the foreign language that is his prose "The lead singer in the band "Red Devils", was stabbed last night on her way to her home in the south of Belfast".  I glance over at my own words, the looping calligraphy begging us to spell out the truth from the characters- "police have arrested a number of individuals in connection with her murder".  The phone rings again, as usual it is loud, the ancient device shaking on its stand, practically begging to be answered.  Norton is happy to oblige.  He speaks into it for a few moments, nodding as if his unexpected caller can see him in the poor lit dusty office, before turning to me.

"Time to go", he says.

He slams the phone down into its cradle.

"Where are we going?", I ask, searching the old man's face for any sign of emotion.

"Interrogations", he simply says, he doesn't need to say any more.  It's started.   And so we get into his dated car, an ancient Rover, rust covering the exterior of his prized possession, heading for the police station, our hearts beating faster with every turn of the wheels.