Dear Monsieur le Commissaire:
I was just minding my own business, heading home after a fourteen-hour shift, exhausted from working hard for you, when all of a sudden—wham!—I was ambushed by three journalists, two photographers and a TV cameraman. Bright lights, mics in my face, a flurry of questions. It was just awful, Mister Commissioner. Really, I’m still shaking. They had me cornered. What could I do?
And I swear, dear Mister Commissioner, I really didn’t mean to say you and the judge were to blame for halting the investigation of the first victim because you both concurred with that ass of a coroner who ruled his death accidental. It was those bright lights in my eyes confusing me. And even though it was your fault, I wasn’t trying to insinuate your interference prevented us from getting the jump on the guy before he killed again. But wouldn’t you know it? Those reporters are so darn smart; they deduced it all on their own.
Mister Commissioner, you see, it’s just this thing I have, when a reporter is calling me stupid and blaming me for someone else’s mistake, I can’t nod along and say, “No comment.” I tried, I really did, but that reporter, she was a sly one. She pushed all my buttons. I was helpless in her clutches.
The thing is, Commissioner, Sir, I told you we had a serial killer on our hands, but you were afraid of bad press. Ironic, huh? But I understand; I mean, they can be ruthless, those press people. And now, it seems, they’re interested in talking to you. But don’t worry; you’re so polished, so PR-savvy—so much better equipped to handle them than I. Better you than me.
And I promise, from now on, when they ask me how I managed to save this case in spite of that judge and your tragic short-sightedness, I’ll tell them: “No comment.”
