The Eyes of a Murderer

Walking through the hallways of the building had a calming effect.  The familiar scents, the clatter of typewriters and computer keyboards, murmurs of my fellow employees followed me as I turned the corner and headed toward the office.
"Deep breaths", I muttered to myself.  "Nothing to be scared of.  Just a client.  Just a normal client".
Yeah, right.  Just a client who had been arrested for murder and had just been released due to a technicality.  "Remember, he wasn't proven guilty.  He is innocent until proven guilty".  I whispered.
I rounded another corner, put a smile on my face, and nodded to the receptionist.
"Mr. Smith?" I ask the man seated in reception.
He nods, stands, and I shake hands with him.  "Nice to meet you", I say.  "Please come this way".
I turn, smile at the receptionist, and lead my client into a nearby room.  It is quiet.  The noise of a busy office has been effectively silenced by the door.  I offer him a seat and round the desk taking the chair there.
"What can I do for you today, sir"?  I ask.
He tells me his concerns and we discuss the different avenues he can take.  All the time, I make eye contact.  He has the most beautiful blue eyes.  They are the shade of blue you see on a bright clear winter's day.  He talks to me about what he wants to do and I give him different scenarios.  I can't take stop looking at his eyes.  We finish up and I stand, shake his hand again, and say "Have a great day'.  He turns and leaves the room, never looking back, always forward.

I sit back down and take a deep breath.  Those damn eyes.  Beautiful in color, but cold.  No warmth, no smile, no life.  Just cold.  I look out the window and take in the beauty of the trees, plants, and landscape which surrounds the office building.  He may not have murdered anyone, but the eyes tell another story. His eyes tell you of loss, of hate, of anger.  Not rage, but coldness.  No love, no life, no hope, no compassion. Icy blue, harsh, barren eyes.  He knows what everyone thinks about him.  He knows the specter of suspicion will always be upon him.  He knows, I know.  How must it feel to live with this apparition?  I pick up the file, walk back out to the receptionist and return to my own desk.  The eyes of a murderer have burned into me, and I will never forget it.