I had this case. Messed up for everybody…the understatement of the year.

Frank Bulgaria—old money with a smile like a dentist’s best friend—he was sitting in the interrogation room, cuffs around his hands and a whistling like a bird.

I walk in and say, “How’s it going sport?”

He shoots me a, “I’m already serving time for this. You got me, Officer. Why am I here?” from across the table.

Out of my envelope, I spread out photos from the scene found in his basement. “Any of these look familiar?” The pictures are of teens, girls who turned 18, then vanished.

His eyes glance the photos, then he says, “I couldn’t help myself. They were all so… young.”

He plays evil so well.

I nod. “Yeah, not buying it. 20 years married. By the photos in your living room, you seemed happy. Doesn’t make sense that you come home one day and off your wife.” I take up the pictures. “When are you going to turn him in?”

“Officer, I don’t know—“

“You Goddamn well know! But no! He’s just a kid? Your son’s DNA is everywhere!”

“He lived there! But I’m the one who—“

“Where is he?!”

Frank turns his eyes then lifts his cuffed wrists. “You tell me.”

“Who’s gotta die, Frank? Who’s gotta die before you give him up? Oh wait. There’s one picture I haven’t shown you.” I pull from deep in my envelope, dropping the photo of my daughter, Isabella, and his son.

He laughs.

“He’s safer inside. We both know what I’ll do if anything happens. You can’t protect him forever.”

He turns his face to one side. “Would you turn in you’re own daughter?”

“The law is the law, Frank.”

“An absolute, huh?”