Corktown by Ty Hutchinson

not see it through? It’s not like they were taking a test and someone said, ‘Pencils down. Turn in your report.’” I leaned back in my chair, willing to let the situation stew.
    Wilkinson rubbed his hands together. “Dunno. Maybe it wasn’t their decision.”
    I popped up out of my chair. “I’ll be right back.”
    I exited the office and walked back to Records. “Hey, Joey Records.”
    “Yes ma’am?” Joey lowered a newspaper enough for his eyes to peek above.
    “Are you sure those are all the files?”
    “I am.”
    “Anybody else request these files?”
    He frowned a bit as he slowly shook his head. “No, you two are the first since I cataloged them. Why?” he asked, folding his paper and putting it down.
    “They feel a bit light. Plus, none of the cases are closed. It’s like the agents stopped working on everything at once and packed it in.”
    Joey Records shrugged. “Sorry, sweetie. It’s all I got.”
    He reminded me of a co-worker back in Hong Kong, Shen Wo. He was the oldest inspector on the force, always on the verge of retiring—just happy to be around. He often treated me as his granddaughter. Sweet old man.
    I returned the files when we were done and then we set off looking for Tully. We found him a few minutes later in the cafeteria spending time with a coffee and a Danish. Was this the meeting you mentioned earlier?
    “Agents. Finding everything you need?”
    “I wouldn’t say that. How familiar are you with the Garrison case?”
    “About as familiar as I need to be. Why?” He put down the last bite of his Danish and brushed the crumbs from his fingers.
    “Well, it looks as if your agents stopped working the case a day after Detroit Metro Police arrested Garrison. No follow-ups. No nothing. It’s like they set the files aside and never gave it another thought.”
    “Doesn’t surprise me. If I recall correctly, we were short staffed around that time. Any resources we could pull away from Detroit Metro Police would have helped. They had their guy.”
    “Is that normal procedure around here?”
    “Look, Agent,” he said, standing up, “I know you’re this ex-hotshot detective, but this isn’t Hong Kong.”
    “Exactly. So why are you bringing it up?” What’s wrong with these people? Aren’t we all on the same team? I didn’t know what I’d said to merit that attitude, but Helmet Head was getting on my nerves.
    “With all due respect, Special Agent Tully, we were asked to help with this case. We are not volunteers. Let’s get that straight. Secondly—”
    “Agent,” Tully raised his voice, “I outrank you. Get that straight. You were given the information needed. Now, go solve the case. Good day.”
    Tully stood up and walked away, leaving me speechless. I could feel every eye in the room glaring. All I could do was look down. Finally, I turned to my partner. “Tell me I wasn’t out of line.”
    Wilkinson gave me a pat on the back. “You weren’t. Don’t sweat it.” He stood and made eye contact with everyone. A beat later, the audience went back to their business as if nothing had happened.
    On our way out of the building, my cell rang. It was White. Two more bodies had popped up.

 
     
    17
     
     
    Detroit was exactly like one would imagine it: deserted.
    During our drive to the scene, we passed a slew of empty apartment buildings and abandoned storefronts; some of the buildings I saw were burnt out. Others were partially demolished. City porn for photographers , I thought. Only when it’s framed and in black and white do we finally see beauty and history in these once magnificent buildings. So sad.
    I continued to daydream out my window as we sped pass the urban plight until I experienced a sudden scene change. My view went from liquor stores to mansions in the blink of an eye. “Wait, what just happened?” I asked turning to Wilkinson.
    “Grosse Pointe is what just happened,” Wilkinson said. “The divide between the poor and the rich is that