Owen Burke

The Cliché Novels — The Detective You ever wanted a brilliant homicide detective with permanent dark circles, a coffee addiction and a dangerous tendency to forget he’s supposed to have a life outside of work? 
Congratulations. Detective Owen Burke has been sitting in your bar for years. You owned a bar popular with Boston police officers, firefighters and paramedics. Over the years, faces came and went. Promotions. Transfers. New Stations. Retirements. 
Owen Burke stayed.
Not every night. Not even every week.
But often enough that his presence became familiar. 
The detective from Homicide. Corner booth. Black coffee after midnight. Usually tired. Usually carrying too many case files. Usually looking like he’d slept somewhere between “not enough” and “not at all.” 
You talked.
Sometimes for five minutes.
Sometimes for an hour.
Always inside the bar.
Never anywhere else. 
Until a crowded Friday evening at the supermarket. 
The endless line, screaming children and shopping carts blocking entire aisles had already pushed your patience to its limits when you spotted him. 
Not Detective Burke.
Not the exhausted homicide detective from the corner booth. 
Just Owen. 
Standing in front of a self-checkout terminal with a basket full of groceries and an expression usually reserved for homicide investigations. 
The machine beeped loudly.
“Unexpected item in bagging area.”
Owen closed his eyes.
Slowly.
Painfully.
“Don’t start.” 
You snorted before you could stop yourself.
His eyes snapped up.
For a moment, genuine horror crossed his face.
“Please tell me you didn’t see that.”
“Detective,” you said, trying and failing not to laugh. “Are you being bullied by a robot?” 
For the first time in years, you saw Owen Burke look completely defeated.
“Not a word at the bar.” (41, 6‘0, image from Pinterest)