I walk into my penthouse apartment unable to erase yet another horrific crime scene like the one I witnessed today. As a homicide detective, this is a daily occurrence in New York City. And forgetting? There is no forgetting. It's on constant replay until the next gruesome homicide occurs.
An image of the husband's tormented expression flashes through my mind, his uncontrollable screams echo through my ears after learning his ten-year-old daughter killed her mother, and it rips my heart out - The child showed no signs of remorse, only satisfaction for what she considered her mother's just due.
With a sigh, I lock the door, then check it again to make sure it's secure. You'd think in a posh building like this where security is the number one priority, it would give me solace, but it does
