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Plastic Helix. By Sean F Stevens. Copyright Sean F Stevens 1996, 2001. PLASTIC HELIX It was three in the morning, I had just returned from another exhausting twelve-hour shift in the Homicide Squad, to the ragged apartment that I called home, when the phone rang. Answering, I was less than pleased to hear the all too familiar sound of my supervisor's voice on the other end of the line. "Good morning!" He began, having to raise his voice to be heard over the seemingly unavoidable static interference that had plagued the cities phone lines lately, though whether it was due to hackers or simple rancid public service inefficiency had yet to be confirmed. "Had any sleep yet ?" He enquired in a very bad impression of sincere concern, a deaf and blind optimist would not be fooled and neither was I. "Not a wink." I replied. "But I was just planning to, so unless you have something better than a Presidential assassination to tell me about, I am hanging up now." "We've caught The Butcher." He murmured. The line |
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