“People have no rights when the One World Government is never wrong.”
Hamilton shouted the cryptic sentence as the two Prison Guards escorted him
through the Homicide office. At the utterance, the tall guards tugged harder even though
Hamilton had paraded with them step by step. Clutching the murderer by his triceps, they
dragged him across the tiles. His soles clicked over each edge, audible since every
detective had stopped what they were doing to observe. It was not every day that a lowly
Homicide Department had such an iconic figure under its roof.
The three turned the corner and vanished from view. Yet, the onlooking detectives’
demeanors did not change. As if reliving the preceding thirty seconds, they continued to
stand like the statues inside the Memorials in the District. Then, one by one, with the
quiet continuing, their heads turned to one of their own, a detective who knew Hamilton a
lot better than they: Gambling City Homicide Detective Michael Locke, Hamilton’s
The 32-year old detective, sitting on the corner of his desk, had watched the
procession and his colleagues from thirty feet away across the maze of cubicles. As they
focused on him, Locke tried to ignore it, his attention still on the words Hamilton uttered.
The male’s voice was deeper than he expected given Hamilton’s average build and
height, him sounding like one of those OWG opera basses. Just another surprise to go
along with all the others Locke encountered trying to catch Hamilton.
A few more seconds and Locke’s colleagues started to clap. He smiled and held up
his hand for them to stop.
“No, no, please.”
This outburst of appreciation surprised and did not surprise Locke. On one hand,
these detectives were strangers to him, and this was his first day back in the home office
in two years. While he traveled all over the world tracking Hamilton, there had been
turnover in Gambling City’s office. His former partners were gone but no one knew
where. So, to get such attention from strangers was unexpected.
On the other hand, Hamilton had struck at the heart of the OWG by murdering those
who provided the Masses with everything. Locke supposed this was the instigation for
each clap. They were not thanking Locke for a job well done. They clapped because they
knew Hamilton, for sure, would never interrupt their Goods and Services deliveries from
Locke could not blame them. He felt the same way. Caring about doing good
Homicide work came second. Protecting the supply of Goods and Services always came
first. And if those two priorities intersected? Even better. In Homicide, though, that
combination never happened.
He glanced at the killer’s file to distract himself and think through the facts of the
case. Murderers were nothing new in the One World Government. A few of them even