'He looked at the clutter on his desk..."

He looked at the clutter on his desk. Was this it? Was this all he had to show for twenty-seven years of hard work? He'd been told to pack his things and leave, but he couldn't see a single thing, amongst what looked like the most pathetic table at the world's worst car-boot sale, that he wanted to take with him. Not a single thing that meant something, anything to him.
          They'd called him a thief. They'd accused him of putting Fred in the hospital. They'd suspected him of much, much worse. Then they had fired him. All because of two things: his red hair and his green eyes. 
           A dirty cop. A disgrace to the badge. And that was only what his friends called him. He'd tried to hold his head high; quietly stating his innocence. But that hadn't worked. So now, it was time for action. Everyone believed they knew who had done it, but he knew the truth. He was the only one who was going to look for who had really did it. So look he would. And he'd start with the other side of his own coin: he would start with his brother.