Morgan Hooker

Blue Ink

Morgan Hooker

The blue ink on the door gave it away. I noticed it before the police. They were about to give up, declaring the case a lost cause. But I remembered the man. I remembered him stamping the passports with a dull and rhythmic kachung, his face stony and silent and still. I remembered his hands. They were huge and powerful, pressing down on the stamp and creating a bright blue blot upon the passports. A solitary dot among the throngs of people filtering the hub of chaos, trying to catch their flight. A dot that seemed insignificant, only necessary for boarding. The police didn’t see past this mask of unimportance. I was the only one aware of that blue dot’s role in the sudden disappearance of airport merchandise. Slowly, cautiously, I slid in front of the door, shoving my hands in my pockets. One of the officers turned to me, his eyes pitiful and his expression sorrowful. He doesn’t know. My hands dig deeper into my pockets when the officer shows me a picture of the man. He asks me if I know him, but I remain stony and silent and still, feeling as if my hands had been doused in a bucket of blue ink.