Abacus

walked over to him and patted his head gently, then quietly left the room and headed down the hall to his daughter’s.
    Her room looked like a pink castle with frills, bows and dolls. He walked over to her bed and gent ly kissed her on the forehead. This is why my work with DL is so important, they need a good future , he thought, quietly closing the door behind him.
    * * *
    The next morning he sat and chatted with his children over breakfast. “What’s happening at school, honey?” he asked his daughter.
    “Well , at the moment we are looking at vocabulary and how words are related.”
    “Okay , that’s good, honey,” he said with a smile. “Words are important.”
    Jane rolled her eyes. “Well, Dad, we are looking at things such as anagrams where words are jumbled to make another word. There are even words that are a mirror image of themselves, like dog, which makes god, and pat, which makes tap.”
    “Al l right that is quite interesting, sweetheart.” He looked at Tim. “What about you, big guy, what have you been up to?”
    “The usual , Dad, you know, sport and that.”
    “He’s got a new girlfriend,” Jane interjected.
    “Is that right, mate?” a surprised Randall asked.
    Tim gave Jane th e evil stare. “Thanks very much,” he growled.
    He smirked at his son. “Tell me all about her, mate, and don’t leave anything out. If you do, I’m sure my daughter over there will fill me in,” he said, smiling at her.
    After dropping his kids a t school, he was again back in the office. Now that Hobbs was tasked with finding Helen, he could now concentrate on the other aspects of his chaotic life. Jiggling his leg under his desk, his thoughts again were directed to the Digby matter. While he didn’t give a crap about Digby’s demise, he did care about Georgie G’s welfare. Now with the added pressure from the Digby family, he needed to keep an eye on him and provide him with some support and reassurance.
    He thought about the disposal of the diary, which was the only evidence tying him to the missing Digby… or was it?
    Swivelling in his chair, he looked up at the shelf that housed the small moleskin-covered book. It too contained Digby’s name, however was definitely not as damning as the diary. Leaning back in his chair, he reached up, separated the folders with his fingers and coaxed the small book out. Opening it up on his desk, he read down the list of seven names until he got to the final one, Kel Digby. But something was different. His name had been crossed out with the black pen, just like the others. “What the f…” he whispered. There was no doubt in his mind that Digby was dead. So the simple black line that had mysteriously appeared in the list now took on a more sinister meaning.
    Rolling his chair over in front of the computer monitor, he placed the book next to the keyboard. Starting from the top of the list, he punched in the details of the first name in the book. Jamie Dickson. Born two ten nineteen seventy-two . As the police profile appeared on screen for Dickson, the words, “Missing Person,” flashed prominently at the top left corner. Randall quickly punched in the second name in the book. Clem Georgiou, born three seven nineteen eighty-one.
    Once again the words, “Missing Person,” flashed in capital letters. A now deeply troubled Randall looked up at the ceiling. This can’t be a coincidence. These crooks aren’t all missing, they’re all bloody dead . Someone is knocking off all the people I have listed. He looked out into the office and watched his team busily going about their business. Jesse and Hobbs talked near the task force office. Leanne and Georgie G were at their desks taking statements from witnesses, but Sheik was nowhere to be seen. He asked himself the question; but who is doing this?
    To confirm his suspicion, he punched the remaining names into the database, finishing with Kel Digby who Georgie G had posted as a missing person. All seven were reported missing. Looking out into the office he whispered, “They’re all dead; the black line means they’re gone, killed.”
    H e carefully studied each of his staff. He couldn’t imagine any of them capable of murder. Maybe it was someone else , maybe a cleaner, or a public servant at the station, but not one of mine, surely , he thought, trying to deflect the possibility that he worked shoulder to shoulder with the killer. Whilst he hadn’t sanctioned what was occurring, the reality was the