It feels like a war.
Chilly, grey, fall morning in the South Bronx.
He rubs his weary eyes, tugs on his coat and
steps out of the car.
Flashes his badge.
Walks past the curious onlookers, brushes off
the media, steps around the barriers.
The bodies are covered, edge of the street, 
side by side.
Unidentified hooker, possible John.
Another brutal, senseless, double homicide.

Ten years on the job.
Could've done something "safer".
But this is the life he chose to live.
Samuel is his given name.
Everybody calls him Sam.
Decorated NYPD Detective. 
Muggings, shootings, stabbings.
Death and injury in every shape and form.
Thought he'd seen it all.
But someone just rewrote the book. 
Two thirty this morning,  he got the first call.

Seventeen. 
The body count so far.
Illicit drugs.
This is the type of filth it can breed.
Most of them shot through the head.
Dealers and users. Heroin, Crack and Weed.
Starting with a low-life on Jackson Avenue.
Zigzagging the southern half of the borough.
A gruesome trail of blood and brain tissue.

Even for New York, it is an 
unprecedented spree.
Six hours tops.
Death came to The Bronx, 
saw, and conquered without mercy. 

The investigation has just begun.
Better call her soon.
That dinner/movie date is no longer on.
They met at the station last year, after
she was attacked.
The girl of his dreams.
It's taken some time, but the relationship
is heading in the right direction, or so it seems.
Dialled her number and the machine picks up.
Leave a message and I'll get back to ya.
Slight pause..
Oh yeah, case you're wondering, 
it's Delila

Smiles..
That's his baby.
Beep..
She's crazy.