Serial Killers: A Fictional Narrative

Tom had been on the go since six o'clock that morning, had confirmed that the brutal rape and murder of a woman was the work of a serial-killer, interviewed her friends and acquaintances, and spent hours perusing telephone phone and computer records, without coming up with one iota of substantive evidence, or feeling as if he'd located a direction in which to turn. The only break, and sustenance, he'd had all day was the quick lunch with Lila, and the Detective was mentally and physically exhausted, frustrated, and impatient. Not a great combination.

The words that accusatory tone that accompanied them his words was unintended, and he was about to apologise for it, when Lila reacted with anger of her own. To Tom, in his current state, that was akin to a red rag being waved at a bull, and the apology stopped in his throat as he broke the embrace, and stepped back. "Where have I been?"

When was the last time he'd reacted with such instant anger, to an innocuous beginning? Oh, Tom knew the answer to that; the argument before they were married where, for the only and only time he'd come close to striking his wife, but at the last moment had managed to redirect the punch at the
"I don't why I bought you this. If there was an intruder, you'd be dead, or raped by the time you managed to get the damn safety off. Or end up shooting yourself. Or me." All confusion about what had elicited Lila's fear left his mind as Tom jumped to his own conclusions about a possible intruder, and approached her again, eyes red and narrowed. He didn't stop until his body touched hers, and he was right in her face, so close that were was no need to raise his voice, however he still did. "Where have I been? Who was I with? I was at the office, Lila. Alone. Attempting to solve a rape and murder. Next time you're more concerned about my dinner going cold, than a woman's life, why don't you fucking