Right now my work is all. I don't care if I ever go home to the dead emptiness of that apartment. I miss JP. Miss him bad. I'm grateful that I have the gang killing case now to keep my mind occupied. It's good to have work again, real work. It's not much of a case, easy for me to solve, but it's work and I feel like myself again.
It seems the only time I truly feel like myself is when I have a case. I don't know why that is, or when I started to feel that way, but when I'm working, everything falls into sync; everything hums inside. When I'm on the hunt, I let it take me over—my adrenalin kicks in; my heart starts pumping; my senses tweak up. It's an incredible feeling; I'm outside myself, yet deep inside at the same time. My colleagues say it's something to watch, the way I investigate a crime scene. Criminal procedure students have even come to observe me at work. Weird, right? Sure, I have skill; I'll admit it. But most of what I have, what makes me unique in my approach, comes from growing up on the street—my cranked up senses, my intuition, the way I can put myself inside a killer's mind without judgment. Bruno saw all that in me when I was a kid, and told me I was made for cop work. I thought he was crazy at the time, but here I am all these years later.
Bruno was right: it's the street inside me that makes me damn good at my job. Maybe that's why I feel more myself when I'm working; it's the only time I can let the wild boy free. It's the only time I'm allowed to be who I truly am.
