He knew more ways to finagle money out of a person than the slickest politician. His repertoire included everything from just a few bucks until Friday to a fiver for a hot tip on a horse in the sixth race.
One sunny afternoon his body was found floating in the south bay, the only item of interest in his wallet being a water-logged, unreadable drivers license and a small metal tag stamped with the number twenty-seven. He was placed on a slab in the morgue with a tag tied to his toe upon which the name "John Doe" was scribbled.
The man was of interest to one Detective however, a thin, lanky former Army Ranger who looked at the photos taken by the Coroner for the case file and fought back a tear. Though the salt water had done quite a job of distorting the man's features and it had been nearly fifteen years since he had last seen the man, the Detective knew who the John Doe was.
No man ever forgets the face of his father, no matter how long it's been since he last saw him. For the Detective it was like looking in a mirror...and it felt like being hit with a wrecking ball.
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