* * * The shadows lengthened in the dark room as night fell. Still, Michael continued to sit, immobile in his worn leather armchair. A glass of scotch...sat untouched on the table beside him. He was too lost in his memories. Helen had rung earlier, ostensibly to chat about things, but he knew it was her way of checking up on him. Even from three thousand miles away, she still felt the need to control his life. As he listened to her familiar voice echoing down the phone line, it was on the tip of. His recommendation was going to be, tell the kid convicted in the death of another kid whose only crime was not being a street thug, That his DNA was everywhere since he cut himself while stabbing the victim. His blood was on the victim’s clothes and even in the wound. The knife had his DNA and bloody finger prints on it. The kid doing the time was lucky the cops didn’t turn him over to the victim’s family. The Detroit cops had a Public Relations problem more than anything else. ‘You have to. More

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