First-time Story--Part 1--any former cops here?

[FireFlavored]

PARTS 1 & 2 (Part 2 just added)

I would like feedback on this story, and suggestion of a title. I thought "Hostage" and "Negotiations" were too pat/overdone. For those of you that read part 1 & remember it, please skip down to part 2. The final part will be added in the next day or so.
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Moving to New England had always been a dream of mine. Literally, a dream. Something about the Walden's Pond laundry-list of descriptive words like 'pastoral', and 'changing leaves', 'quaint quietness', etc. kept creeping into my head, nesting there like rats. When I actually moved there, to satisfy the part of my head hijacked by all of this, it was evident to everyone that I did not seem to belong.

In my metal and leather, with hair whose color changed a lot more radically than the leaves, I was as much of an opposite to my environment as you could get. People-wise, I blended-in just as well. Unable to get a job here, finding that my type of art did not sell anywhere, and unwilling to go on the internet, I was on the last of the savings that I moved with. Already I had resolved that I would rather secretly starve here than be pitied at the foodbank or have to change who I was. This was as good a place to die as any.

Then I noticed an article in the paper that there were not enough law enforcement applicants in the state, and our local office could not afford the incentives to entice recruits from out-of-area. I read 'they are desperate'. We were a match made in hell.

After the initial application was accepted, I reported to an academy for further evaluation and training. It was going to be a tough sell, in person, I knew. But I wanted this job, needed not to fail once I had decided to try. So I toned-down the hair and makeup, removed the visible piercings, and tried to keep the inherent sarcasm out of my voice. This half-assed worked. The sergeant who approved me pointed-out that my hair was still not a natural color and the holes in my flesh were still noticeable (I bit back the acerbic question on my tongue as to whether he had ever been shot and acquired holes in his flesh, that he had ever been proud to display); so he was letting me go forward, but 'no more of this kind of thing in the future'. Whatever. If that's what it took, I could hide myself a little while in uniform.

I said something like that to the psychologist, whose approval I also needed to pass. That caused me an owl-like scrutiny that I immediately regretted. To my credit, I did not stammer, talk too much or go into any kind of circular logic. It was only when I verbally essayed that I thought I was best suited to this job because of my 'being on the edge of the crowd' wherever I went, that I saw real potential that this person was going to accept me. My argument was that from the perspective I was given growing-up this way, it made me more analytical, able to detach from and yet understand and predict the behavior of others. There was a gleam in the eye of the psych at that, a "what the hell--why not?!?", that may have just been burnout, but resulted in the signing of my recommendation.

Training was uneventful. Other than learning 'the book', so to speak, and beginning to pickup on cop culture, it was mostly rehash. I was already a deadshot when I joined, and had taken self-defense training in highschool and some martial arts in college. I had not taken criminal-specific or law classes, but that was waived in the current applicant crisis. One thing I had studied quite extensively was psychology, supplementing my knack for analyzing people, although it never helped me to get along with them. Sometimes I just don't want to see what I can predict. Even with gut instinct--which cops live by like the Holy Grail of streetsmarts--sometimes I didn't want to hear what that 'little voice' was trying to tell me.

Upon graduation, I was accepted to the department of my 'home' town. To this day, I will never know if the old cop assigned as my partner was a strategic choice as someone so opposite that it was thought I would learn from him or we would balance each other's personalities. Then again, it could just be that he was the only one who didn't argue against me. That was just something Durmont wouldn't have done.

Life came to him, he waited for it, then he patiently did the best he could with it; which usually was the absolute best that could have been done. Me? I was at the other end of the teeter-totter. Running one from point in life to another, I often ran into things, when not rushing through them. My results were mixed, and the harder I tried, the worse the outcome, because I made myself too frenetic. "Add coffee, and stand back"--that was me, everyday of my life.

Durmont had been at the top once, had FBI potential, even. "Partners" is a mystical relationship to a cop. As if the universe has transferred upon you the person who is your mindmate, if not your soulmate. A warrior lifemate for the battlefield, who often is close to you in your private life as well. Lucky cops are able to leave their work at work, not let it spill into the afterhours. Not let it seep inside any deeper than the uniform. Looking back, I speculate that it might be the 'partnerness' that keeps the job from getting to you. You always have each other to talk to, about the things no one else can know or understand. Someone that can actually be there, in every corner of our lives....

Back in the day, Durmont had a partner, Simmons. Brawns and brain, both of them, all the way from academy to the end. They were on vice, and due to the limited forces in our area, would branch into special services, when situations arose around here. When there was a human-created emergency, these two were at the top of the list to manage it until the feds got to the scene. One time they had negotiated a two-day standoff with a criminally violent man who was holding his ex-family hostage, and wanted to leave the country with their kids. After the feds got there, they were so impressed with Durmont's handling of the case, they let him wrap it up, without any shots being fired or hostages being harmed.

Simmons was driving them to a place 'in the big city' to celebrate. The tab was being picked-up by the Boys in Black, following just behind them. Another vehicle in the opposite-bound lane snapped an axle, crashing into them, killing Simmons instantly. Durmont recovered physically, but withdrew from the world.

He buried his ambition when he buried his partner. The FBI was therefore out the window. Even promoting higher within the state was gone, because Durmont was unwilling to travel outside of city limits, and was like stone if you suggested he work a beat or otherwise leave the office. Nothing could be said against his work ethic. He still worked 50-hour weeks, never took holidays off, always answered his phone after hours, and both his decisions and paperwork were textbook. Due to the limitations he imposed, though, it meant a wordless demotion to a desk. Behind that desk was where he had been sitting for a number of years, when I first stood in front of it, and we were introduced.

The look he gave me was long, from the most interesting pokerface I have ever seen. Then he reached his large hand out, and clasped around mine, in a handshake only slightly briefer. Just a firm grip, no moving around. Both our hands were strong and dry, his only faintly calloused. All things considered, it was ironically the first time in my life I had a feeling I belonged, in that silent minute. When he let go, that feeling didn't leave me. Ever.

Durmont put me through the paces of the job. Piling paperwork on me, making me redo it however many times it took to get all the right details in there, and make them read perfectly. When I had told him I was doing them in my sleep--and even there I was getting them exactly right--the corners of his mouth twitched, and he asked me if I was ready to try a beat. Solo work was not something I had thought about for several months. Of course it was my goal when I signed-up, being a loner. But Durmont had drawn me into his sedentary world, and I had accepted the invisible mantle of partner and brotherhood as part of my uniform. However, the old fires still burned, and I responded eagerly to testing myself at something new.

The regular beat turned me into an overachiever. Partly because I was so good at it, is was too easy. This just added to the other part of it, and that was boredom. What they call in the profession Barney Fife syndrome. Durmont caught-on to me enjoying putting in extra hours just to do the extra paperwork my zealousness generated. The 'grasshopper' had turned into a locust, and something must be done. Immediately I began to rotate beats, and this allowed me to develop files on patterns I saw in people and problems that crossed lines across the area. Intrigued by my initiative, Durmont began to order handmade deep dish pizza and other ethnic treats, for us to share in the office. While we ate a late dinner, I filled in my files by hand, and filled him in verbally, at the same time.

My mentor had taken even more of an interest in me. This I figured-out when I was handed assignments for a list of undercover projects, being told that Durmont had recommended me for them. He had never even discussed such a possibility with me. For a couple of days a week, I was encouraged to put my hardware back in, and told to change my haircolor more often, etc. This was now seen as an asset to the new teams I rotated in, making me the go-to for youth squad and certain vice stakeouts. My knack and knowledge with sex, drugs, and other 'alt' lifestyles was paying-out in spades. We busted one perv after another, and started bringing down rings.

Durmont actually began to leave the office, just to come down and watch me work, when I was undercover and couldn't talk shop with him by phone anymore. Sometimes I was doing something where I couldn't even wear a wire, and things got dicey. My partner would always help me psych-up for the situation, run tirelessly with me through every possible scenario we could think of, and after it all played out and was over, he talked me back into the neutrality of everyday.

There was nothing I was that I wasn't better at because of him. Left to my own previous resourcefulness, I would have surely gotten myself into every one of those undercover assignments, but my luck would have run out quickly, in getting out of them alive. Durmont and I both knew this, but it was not something we talked about. There are alot of things you don't talk about when you are a cop. You just internalize the knowledge. That way you can use it, but you never have to confront it by the light of day.

More and more, I wasn't seeing anything by any means, that wasn't related to my growing encyclopedia of cases. Once again, Durmont was alert to me. I knew something was up, because he asked me if I wanted to go catch a meal at a new Italian restaurant. If that wasn't enough, he told me to leave the messenger bag of paperwork I was about to grab. My turn to be pokerfaced, I said 'Sure, but I'm buying'. He smiled his cop smile and shook his head, telling me it was on the dept.'s tab. Wordlessly, I got my coat, and we left. Durmont insisted on driving, and I decided the pokerface was the right makeup to wear for the evening.

When we walked in, the owner, Binocci, hustled out of the kitchen to greet us. The place was very understated, warm colors, a few classic statues and ethnic elements, but everything simple and clean, which made it comfortable to everyone. It was quickly apparent, in the solemn-yet-glad way that Binocci greeted Durmont, that they had known each other in an earlier life. Seated where we could inconspicuously watch everyone else in the place, food was brought to us without the necessity of ordering. I split my mind between small talk with the owner and his staff, and running mental games with the people I was observing. When I had awarded myself enough points (for correctly predicting when people were going to drop food in their laps or change their expressions, etc) to get bored, I swiveled my full attention to my partner and asked him what was up.

Unsurprised, he locked his eyes on mine like a gunfighter, and in a tone that would sound casual to anyone but a cop, asked me if anyone minded all the extra hours I was working. Equally fake-relaxed, I said that there wasn't. Why we were playing this new game, I didn't know. Both of us knew that I was working six days a week, roughly twelve hours a day. I was too practical not to take care of various needs, including ones in the afterhours of night, went to the doctor on lunch breaks, and took Sunday off for the simple reason of catching up my sleep on the slow day. 'My life is full', is how I summed it up for Durmont. With a snort that closed his eyes for a second, he threw his wadded napkin onto the table. Unable to resist a rare moment to get the old man's goat, I put on my hooker voice and asked, 'Why, Robert? You want to try driving in the backseat of the squadcar tonight?'

I expected a little shock, but instead something shifted in his eyes, and he replied, 'Don't think I haven't thought about it." Suddenly a flipbook of images of me in those hooker outfits, me climbing up ahead of him on ladders, squeezing against him with guns drawn in alleys, feeling along dark corridors and hiding in tiny, darker places together the past couple of years--not to mention times that we automatically changed clothes or were stripped of them by medics in front of each other....left me the one redfaced and unable to focus on anything I was seeing or hearing.

It turns out Durmont had been speaking for a few minutes, before my brain realized what he was talking about. The old man was telling me a story about when he was young, and I practically had to slap myself to keep my scrambled brains from wondering off as to when the last time that had happened. (Never. Okay, then, you better pay attention!).

Durmont had never had a steady relationship with a woman. From the time he was a kid, he knew what he wanted to be. Not that he thought any woman would stop him--he came from parents that were examples of love, respect, and integrity. It was that he knew his ambition could take him many places. Not just up, but elsewhere in the world. He made the decision to see where he ended-up first, then choose a woman that was already there. That way,
neither one of them would have to make sacrifices to be together. (This definitely sounded like the Durmont that I knew: everything as it should be, no detail overlooked, no contingency unplanned for). 'So what's wrong with that?', I ask.

'Life doesn't go by what we plan', he says. He goes back to his story, him and Simmons, going to be heroes. The best of the best. Cop legends. Things were changing in our part of the country. It was like there was something in the water that was making people go crazy here or maybe it was the waves of new drugs, like anywhere and everywhere else. There had been too many close calls, especially in the the violent crimes category. Hostage negotiations were unheard of when he was a kid. Now they seemed to be part of the job's rotations. Oldtimers in standoffs with developers. Layoffs resulting in sleep-deprived people attacking utility workers when they would come to do the disconnects. Kids turning into adults younger and younger. At every age,
crime becoming deadlier every time you turn back around.

When the call came in about the guy, fresh out of prison, seen speeding down the road towards his ex-in-law's house, with a back window full of guns, Durmont hadn't wanted to take it. Simmons pushed for it. They had both had offers from other depts., other agencies, both feds and states, and numerous private-sector ones farther out. All they had to do was pick one, pack-up and go. But it wasn't enough for Durmont's partner. He was chasing the ghost of his father, a man that only valued the names and faces in headlines, whose young son never warranted his attention. Simmons persuaded Durmont that if he took that one last call, they would go together to their destiny after that. Since destiny led them to the cemetery, Durmont decided he didn't want to share it with anyone again, ever.

We both turned to look at the rain beginning to patter outside the front window of the restaurant. As we did so, he said, 'We were on our way to Binocci's place in the city. It was Simmons' favorite'. I let the profoundness of everything he said soak into me, like the weather was transforming everything outside.

Then Binocci himself was beside our table, proferring the best of his desserts. Durmont capped his friend's bicep, saying that we would, but we had somewhere else we had to be going. Wiping my pokerface back on with my napkin, I likewise thanked Binocci for an excellent dinner, and wished the restaurant all the success it could handle. Following my partner out into the rain, I slipped my coat on, and noticed he was walking up the sidewalk, instead of towards the car. With a few quick steps I caught-up, and he automatically started filling me in. There happened to be a birthday party going at the pub down the street, he said, for a certain young veterinarian, thrown by our fellow uniforms. Now in cop parlance, when we refer to ourselves, there are four ages of cop: young & old, and before and after that is simply underaged & retired. Only rookies can be considered by themselves, because age has nothing to do with what makes them outsiders to the rest of us leading our lives. So I knew before I got there that Durmont was trying to set me up with the other 'young' person he talked to the most, and that was the vet we took our K-9's to and from. It was going to be an interesting night.

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That night led to a pattern of about two years. So much for my usual one-weekend stand. The old man not only had my number, but he had given it to another guy. Durmont was right, as always. A veterinarian was probably the only thing he could have picked for me that wouldn't make me feel threatened by interference in who I was, and this guy, who spent his time divided between dealing with wild or wounded animals and cops, was probably the only one equipped to deal with me. Odd hours also didn't faze him. We both had the occasional close call with someone we were trying to save or things turning killer, and we both had to deal with our share of death and depravity.
Durmont was the only other person that knew this guy actually got me to play with things that were cute and cuddly. Anyone else would have been made by me to regret finding out.

Life was good, which should have been enough of a warning.

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Child pornography is one of the things that will make a cop's blood boil quickly. It's a despicable crime, one that paints dismal and tragic futures for its victims. Those that survive it often end-up doing to themselves terrible things long after they are away from their abusers. Suicide rates among survivors are high. The cop part of us refused to admit that we thought the homicide rates of perps should be higher. Afterall, we were supposed to be the models of 'two wrongs don't make a right'.

There began to be a trickle of isolated reports from different precincts, that I felt a pattern in. Durmont didn't see it, said I was extrapolating too much. My gut said otherwise, so you knew who I was going to listen to. We had kids complaining of different strangers talking to them near schools. Polaroid picture wrappers being found in public bathrooms. Reports of domestic abuse were steadily increasing. Thefts of odd items were also becoming common. Unemployment was going back up; so were parole and probation rosters, to cope with the always-escalating crime rates. Too many people with too much time on their hands, and bad ideas already in their heads for how to spend it. But something about it irritated me more than the usual.

Our big break came when we had someone file a complaint that they had purchased a used PC from a tech shop, only to find-out that it was their own computer, stolen in a robbery months before. When they happened to look at the serial number, it matched the paperwork still buried in a kitchen drawer. The warrant was a slam dunk. In a hidden room we not only found an amateur movie production suite, but an enormous collection, that included kiddie porn. What was the big surprise was that a large number of the machines in for servicing turned out to have similar material on them. Sexual deviants are notorious porn addicts. Sadly, a biproduct of the internet has been to feed monsters like these, who can't get enough. Cosmic balance comes in the form of hackers who attach as many viruses as possible to the porn these perps download, so that there PCs eventually crash and have to be thrown-out or rebuilt. It's not the kind of problem you can take to just anyone, as they will know a federal crime when they it, and turn you in. So the concept of combining a kiddie porn club with a computer recycling service made a sick sort of sense.

And sick was definitely the word for it, as it was the job of those of us with the strongest stomachs to pan through footage, to capture individual snapshots of the victims. Everybody else got off easy, with the bagging and tagging of evidence, and loading it all out to store in lock-up. There must have been hundreds of kids I photoshopped onto disk for cataloguing. If we were lucky, maybe 10% of these were kids already found and 'saved' in other raids over the years, and across the map. Maybe if our karma was good enough, we might be responsible for a fractional percent addition to the list of those
identified. Saving was not likely to be part of the deal.

It was not something I discussed with Danny, my man. He knew from the other cops what case I had been working, that was about to hit the news the next day. More often than not, Danny would just let me sit, holding wet dogs while he clipped claws or dangling string for foster cats at his place, as I let my mind unwind like the yarn in my hand. After whatever had passed out of my mind, my eyes would suddenly snap up to find his, and he always smiled. Always. Then we would go and do something ordinary, elsewhere. Or he would take my hand and lead me gently to where we would do something special, in the bedroom, where the animals were not allowed. Atleast not the official ones.

Tonight I was meeting him at his work, and we were going out to Binocci's for a romantic dinner. Even if I resisted, Danny and Binocci would make sure I relaxed and enjoyed myself. They were good for me that way. That's what Durmont would say, anyway.

I was leaning against the hood of the car, in the crisp fall air, in the back parking lot. My thoughts were on the holidays, which I usually avoided. Last year Durmont and I had played pool on Thanksgiving, and a card games marathon from Christmas Eve to New Years, with the retired cops that needed to keep working cases vicariously. Sometimes their input was invaluable, and I made a big deal about it. With all of them, I tried to to find ways to let them help in as many gray areas as I could create. Durmont never said anything, but I knew whenever he asked me to go with him on such nights, there was someone who needed this. Retirement is worse than death to some cops. Warrior instinct. Vicarious involvement in cases after retirement can be interpreted as a permanent type of undercover work. At times, I coordinated an impressive underground task force. Santa had never been safer.

But this year, Danny had asked me to forego hanging-out with the boys. He had a nice family in Providence, and they were dying to meet me. Braving my state of mind lately, he asked me to decide which day I would be willing to go there on. My thoughts, as a result were preoccupied, and I almost did not notice the little girl sneaking around the dumpster to hustle a dirty cardboard box by the back door. Stealthily, I walked up behind her, and could hear her sobbing. Just as I went to reach for her, she stiffened and whirled towards me. I had only the briefest glimpse of her face, shadowed by the oversized hoodie that she wore. Then she turned and ran down the alley, with me instinctively chasing for several zigzagging blocks, before I saw her disappear into a dilapidated and overcrowded apartment building. Trudging back through slush which now soaked and gunked my shoes, I found Danny and his assistant, Tara, bending over the cardboard box. He said they heard the commotion of me shouting and chasing the kid, and peeked outside, to find the box. Inside of it was a badly beaten mutt, that looked like it had been abused for some time. The assistant said something about it was too bad that I couldn't catch the kid, as statistics say that people who do this to animals, do worse things to other people, too.

I felt like someone had slammed me in the stomach with a load of bricks, and I had hit my knees before Danny caught me. He saved me from also hitting my face, I had collapsed that suddenly. Images flooded back to me, and I thought the spinning would make me sick, just as my mind froze on the face of the girl in the hoodie, and where I had seen her before. Pushing past Danny, who looked very fearful for me, I ran to my car and peeled out of the parking lot.

Durmont was at the station. He was going over cold case files, a hobby he had acquired since he had arranged for more and more of my nights to be busy with Danny. I wondered if he also snuck off with them to meet with the city's secret and senior task force, but I would never pursue such curiosity. When he saw my face, he quickly arranged everything in his hands onto his desk, and took a stance next to my desk. 'Thought you were going to dinner tonight', he said carefully. Without dignifying that with a response, I immediately pulled-out my copy of the kiddie discs. Surfing frantically, I tried to remember which disks hers was on, while telling Durmont that I had recognized the pretty little girl hidden under the adult size hoodie. He continued to watch my face very carefully, as we went over the usual questions. Knowing he would be unable to dissuade me, my partner took the desk opposite me, and began to write-up a report of the incident as we talked.

I found her picture. Within seconds I had prepared it atleast six different ways, with prints going into the printer, and disks rotating to load her picture on each one, in preparation for the next phase. Rattling on, I asked Durmont if he was going to go get the judge at home or was I? He very cautiously balanced his hip on the edge of my desk, and asked me, 'Don't you think you should go get cleaned-up for dinner, and let this one wait 'til morning, instead?'

Absolutely shocked and outraged, I stared at him. Not only did I not think that I should be going to dinner, and getting a judge instead, I was pretty sure I was going to raid that apartment building single-handedly, of I had to. Durmont stared back. 'What is the girl's name?', he asked. I didn't know. 'Which apartment building is it?', he asked. I gave him the answer, and he looked thoughtful for a second, and said that building has 46 units if he remembered correctly. It wasn't a crime not to answer the door if the officer could not prove you were home and awake when they knocked, and there was no warrant in anyone's name or apartment number. We both knew that. Hell, most of the people in the city knew that. My mind reeled frantically. There had to be a way. Durmont laid a hand on my shoulder, just as Danny came through the door.

'I figured you would be here', Danny said to me, with a sweet, sad smile. My eyes locked on his hand, where something strand-like dangled. Embarrassed, he brought it up for me to see. It was the filthy remnant of a nylon strap dogcollar. If you looked hard enough, you could see it had once been red, but it was rotted, and worn almost through in places. As his hand brought it to the light, though, I could see writing on it. My ribs slammed into the desk as I lunged for it, and my heart raced as I read the name 'Cassie' and the address of the same apartment building I had chased her to, scrawled in permanent marker on the band. 'Proof! I have proof! Thank You God!', I screamed. Other officers started towards our corner, but my partner waved them away. Looking at Danny, he asked if there were tags, too. 'No'. That meant no last name or apartment number, only flimsy circumstantial evidence. It might be enough, I thought, just as Durmont said to me 'Tomorrow the charges are filed in court, and this case is official. No judge is going to jump that gun; and we can gather more evidence over the next few days'. I looked at him, and knew my eyes pleaded, but that was better than speaking, which I was not sure I could do right then. Durmont cleared his throat, and turned back to Danny. 'Would you be willing to swear-out charges for animal cruelty? Can you keep the dog as evidence?' Danny answered that he would do it in a heartbeat, and my partner turned to me and said 'Then I can get you a warrant first thing in the morning'. But Danny was waiting to add, hesitantly, that we should send our photographer over to his office, as the dog had died. Durmont looked at him soulfully, and said 'You can't save them all'. At that, I was out the door without them.

There was very little that cops do not know about other cops. They just don't discuss it. It was a part of the code. The best and the strongest always have a secret as to how they survived what they had to. Cops don't go there with each other. Sometimes even your partner doesn't know it. Even if they do, they would die before revealing it under torture. Your partner could always be counted on to protect it. Durmont had told me his secret. He had figured out mine on his own, which is why he knew I needed Danny, the gentle future that would make-up for my violent past. Danny had never been told by either of us, but he looked at me sometimes like he did the animals that came to him suffering, and I knew he knew, without the details.

PART II:

The wind burning in my lungs as I ran to the darkened part was not enough. Pain is an invitation for my conscious to slide into the darkside of my mind. There are no threats there, only promise of more pain and primal rituals of flesh and blood and violence. Chemicals produced in the brain are often more addictive than those obtained on the street. Any good psych or pathologist will tell you that. Testosterone, adrenaline, serotonin, many others. Manmade drugs simulate or trigger these to be released in the brain, but if you really want a direct, mainline-type high, a natural one is the fastest way to go. Means can be delivered in many flavors, but violence is the quickest hookup for the ultimate drug cocktail. Sex is another, and violent sex is damn near transcendent to a darkside junkie. I had heard rumors of other fixes that chilled the most hardened of veteran cops. As a person that didn't talk about the past, I knew what many of them were, although not yet firsthand.

Durmont's way of preventing that was Danny. Dan, the man incapable of cruelty or violence, even among consenting adults. If ever there was a reason for me to stay in the light, he was it, and my partner knew it. Had made sure of it, in fact. But they weren't here, because right now I wanted as far from the light as I could get. It had a compulsive habit, as Durmont did, of being able to know what was hidden in the darkness. Sex was off the menu, as I was still attached enough to my life to go back to it. Which meant I wouldn't do anything that would keep me from being able to look Danny in the eyes again. That didn't mean when he saw the bruises and cuts he wouldn't be upset and fear for me, but he wouldn't judge me, either. He would be looking into the eyes of a wild animal the next time he saw my face, and if he could live with that, then so could I.

Being thrown across the park with a blade in my hand was just as satisfying as being thrown by across a bed. Weapons are not a requirement, they just added different spices. Bodies slamming together don't have to be unclothed, in fact it added to the roughness of it. Drunk on the taste of blood in my mouth, whether my own or someone else's, I made sure to stop while I can still stagger away. Rather then be found unconscious, I always found my way home before morning.

So it was again. Fraley, a cop from another detail, came to my apartment in the first silver hours of daylight. Danny wordlessly answered the door, sleepless in his bathrobe a day-old beard, gesturing with his head to where I was curled on the couch, still in my hurricane survivor look from the night before. Obviously Fraley was expecting something more familiar about my appearance, and stuttered his greetings, fighting the urge to question what had happened to me since I left the station. I cut him off, asking him why the chief had sent him. Why wasn't Durmont here or why hadn't they just called? Snapped back to his purpose, the automatic cop script came out of his mouth. Following the directives of the sargeant, they had obtained a warrant based on testimony from an elderly member of the apartment building that said victim lives in a third-floor unit....

At the word victim, I knew she was dead. The little girl in the hoodie, who thought I was what she had to fear the most. It was not her who should fear me, then or now. Danny watched me intently, as did Fraley. Though I was sure I did not reveal anything outwardly, there must have been something in my eyes. Fraley's voice slowed perceptibly, and both he and Dan's shoulders began to bunch with tension, as if they now feared what they were seeing. Silently, I let Fraley run out of words, never blinking as I stared him down. Danny crouched in front of me, reaching for my hand, and telling me he was sorry. Then I blinked, and moved swiftly to the bathroom. Five minutes later I had showered-off and dressed in an all-black outfit and black trenchcoat, my badge clipped to the outside breast pocket, my gun and belt concealed but at ready.

Durmont was processing the scene, and I was heading there. It's not like I needed directions, and as I heard the two men calling behind me, I ignored them and continued out. Dimly aware that they were following me, my mind was single-focused on finding out where the perpetrators were. Seeing the small body being lifted from the dumpster only added to my rage, efficiently fashioning itself into something more specific inside my head. Every detail under discussion helped that project further.

Still, I had not seen Durmont yet. Where could he be? One of the techs must have read my thoughts, because she told me that my partner could be found several blocks away, having apparently located the girl's father. The distance between those two points was a blur. When I got there, once again, Durmont was not visible. A coroner passed me, and I asked him who the case was, and he gave me the name of the father, preliminarily being called a casualty of drug overdose. Somehow the monster being dead increased my anger instead of lessening it. I wanted to confront someone, and the man who had called me off the trail the night before and failed to let me handle this case firsthand this morning seemed like a good start.

After several heated exchanges with those on the scene and back at my headquarters, I discovered my partner's whereabouts were completely unknown. Searching on my own, I went to Binocci's. No Durmont, in fact he hadn't seen him since the last time we were in together. Outside of the boys in blue, me and Binocci's, he had no other relationships that I knew about. Strike that, he had no other connections to the living.

Fraley had filled me in on what happened, why the father of the girl had killed her. There are no neighborhoods where people don't have anything better to do but be in each other's business. One of the troublemaking biddies had assumed the girl was a delinquent, being that she was seen being chased by the female she disapproved of but knew well, on account of my ever-changing hair, as a local cop. Once I knew the father was beyond feeling pain, all I could think of was that I could not feel enough to drown out the rest of the details. But now a conversation came back to me. Overheard as I was passing through the apartment hallway, two techs commenting on what a shame it was that we hadn't got there last night, because it would likely have been a hostage situation at worse, and Durmont was famous for handling those. That was when it hit me that I was not the one hurting the worst right now. And I also knew where to find my partner.

Headquarters had to find me the name of the place. It would have taken forever to get it from internal affairs or the other data keepers, but never underestimate the adhesive properties of information to women. One of the retired dispatchers went to every funeral held for uniforms, and never forgot the important details. The current dispatcher had her home number, and after the requisite 20-minute conversation, had the address to me. I remembered what Durmont had said about Simmons and his destiny ending at the cemetery, and I sped through gray sheets of rain to where I saw Durmont's car at the entrance to the path designated for military and public servicemen graves. Slipping on the too-short grass, my voice worthless as the storm was blowing in, I tried to scream his name. Time stops for Death, everything comes to a finite point, where your life is summed-up and ends in a snapshot. There is no stopping Death, then. His silence is the proof that we are not meant to interfere, but merely to witness. My eyes filled with the snapshot of Durmont standing over his old partner's grave, just as he pulled the trigger of the gun that was his job to carry. Then my ears were filled with the gunshot itself, and sounds that cannot be described with words. No more than I could describe the feeling of what was left of him, as it fell backward into my slipping hands, reaching a moment too late to stop him.

The absurdity of the ambulance that arrived after that was too much for me. As they tried to get me into a squad car to follow it out, as if the ritual was somehow important to the fate of my partner, I laughed contemptuously in their faces. That was when they started trying to talk me into boarding a possible second ambulance, which someone was radioing for not quite out of my hearing. At that point, I went very still and cold, my wide stance straight out of academy training, and informed them to clear a path to my car. Where I was going was not official business at this moment. His suicide note to me had been bagged and tagged in his home: "Whatever you do, remember that you can't save them all. You know I have always loved you, and my last wish is that you will do whatever you have to in order to save yourself. That's your final orders, too, detective. A direct order. Follow your gut, not just the handbook, with no regrets, no looking back, better than I did. Stick with the plan, live the life that we talked about, and you and Danny be happy. That you found love makes you a better detective and him a better negotiator than I ever was. You don't have to be a hero, but if you are, make sure it's a living one, understand me? If not, I will have never done anything right. And for whatever this means, I am truly sorry."

There was nothing I could add to that statement, and the facts would be in my report in the morning. I said so to the chief. He spoke to me warily, advising me that I was on leave until further notice. That wouldn't stop me from being in the office in the morning, I told him. With that, the uniforms parted like a dark sea, rain still spraying in my face, as I walked to the car. As I entered the vehicle, I noticed that the downpour had washed all of Durmont's blood off of me. Somehow the removal of evidence never erases the crime or reduces the consequences. It just requires the right cop to know what to do with it.
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PART III:

Most of the people you will find working in Internal Affairs were either the kids who liked to pull wings off insects to see how they managed or they were the other kids that beat the snot of them for being cruel, all grown up and abusing their power. Any cop finding themselves the focus of their attention was not happy. I.A. was told to determine if I was fit for active duty, which meant that they were to find proof that I wasn't and 'handle' me.

Being that happiness was no longer in my vocabulary, and had only been a brief resident, they were not able to haze me, as intended. My record was exemplary, Durmont had made sure of it. Commendations and newsclippings about me were neatly filed in his desk drawer. They were the perfect presentation, ready to go, for me to make my case as to why I should be on active duty. How many officials and uniforms had publicly commented or put in writing that I was invaluable as an undercover operator? Alot more than I ever knew. While my partner made sure to bust my chops when I was a rookie, he made sure to document in detail my progress and everything I had ever done right, as well. Durmont would never have said that much to me. Good cops, partners, supervisors.....won't. You don't need something like that going to your head. Worse than that, if you are running in your head what people are going to say about your actions, you're already corrupted. It's no longer about justice and the job, it's about you. Somehow, I think that is the lesson that Durmont learned from Simmons, and I never had to learn.

Maybe that had something to do with why the old man chose me on the first day. Because I had never cared what anyone else thought. Until Durmont. Then Danny. But one was dead now, and the other was slowly getting the message that I was not the same person he had known.

Immediately after my partner's death, his attorney contacted me. Apparently, Durmont had named me his sole heir, and there was alot that came with that. There was no regular life insurance, of course, on account of suicide. In fact, he had cashed-out the policy earlier in the day that he killed himself. Being by-the-book all his adult life, Michael Durmont had been paying for life insurance ever since he turned nineteen. Thirty-four years later, that was a sizable nest egg. More than that, he had retirement fund and stock benefits that he had also rolled over to me. There was a likelihood that the lawyer would get most of his survivor benefits for me, as it was clearly a case of job-related stress that resulted in his death. Even the brass didn't have brass enough balls to try to discredit a well-known hero, which Mike had been at one time, his attorney said. Despite the tragic spiral he went into after that, until the last few hours of his life, he had always been the perfect cop. He had just lost the desire to climb the ladder or be a hero, and preferred people turning their backs on him to being disillusioned that they couldn't look up to him anymore. Once you decline the pedestal, there is no where to go but down.

That's not factual, I informed the lawyer. I looked up to Durmont. Every rookie and everyone that ever worked a beat with him looked up to him. Ask anyone that ever had to process a crime scene or the successful negotiators that came after him--they all respected him, said he was the best you could ever learn from, even from files. They're still talking about him, and you don't have that kind of following if you're a failure. There was one thing that he failed at, though, said the lawyer: 'He failed to live, by his own choice. He was very explicit, even in the wording of his will, that he feared that he would fail you, too, and never wanted you to lack what you needed to have a better life'. With that I silently let the attorney finish explaining to me the forms I was signing, the assets being transferred into my name, taxes and fees being deducted for my new wealth, and giving me the card of the security company that was in possession of the keys to my new house.

The house was the biggest surprise of all. In his first years as a rookie, Durmont had begun saving for the house. During my first years as a rookie, he had bought this place, and paid it off not long after. Mike's place. That sounded so weird to me, it just didn't sit right. Durmont's place had been alot like mine, tiny apartment, just enough light to clean a gun and read reports by without losing precious eyesight. Too small to feel empty, never occupied enough of the time to get cluttered. There wasn't even enough room for a dog, he had said to me once. Neither one of us were cat people. In fact, I thought we were so similar that it was affirmation that I was living right.

Now I wondered. The detective in me immediately strung together the facts, and a theory came to mind that unsettled me. I knew that when he was young, he intended to make the top of his field, and then settle down. Wife, kids, white picket fence? Could that have still been what he wanted? But he didn't actually buy the house until after he started training me. I thought back to the nights I spent in the prostitute outfits, and the flash I thought I had imagined in Durmont's eyes sometimes after that. This man would pick me up on hungover days, pitch black coffee in hand, and watch me dress in the living room so we would not be late to work. But this was also the man that practically handcuffed me to Danny until I caved and played nice. This was what he wanted for me, no matter who I wanted it with. At once I was overwhelmed with loss and rage at the same time--again. Durmont had never had the courage to tell me how he felt while he was alive, and let me choose. Yet, always the big dog, he had decided on his own what was best for me, and I had fallen into line like I did with everything else he wanted me to do.

After that, it was just repetition. I moved into the uselessly big house with the white picket fence, the one that Durmont picked-out but never lived in, even years after he owned it outright. Three days later there was a car in front of my house. I recognized Carmen right away. She was one of the breeders for our K-9 program, which instantly triggered my suspicion of the blanket-covered cargo she was carrying. My greeting was wary and pokerfaced. Nervously she remarked on the high white picket fence and security gate were going to come-in handy. The second thing out of my mouth was 'Did Danny send her?' No, she was surprised that I said that, although everyone knew that we had split up.....Quickly she unwrapped the dog carrier, and a small two-color bundle with a ridiculously curly tail locomotored into my legs. It was a German Shepherd puppy. My questioning look must have been unfriendly, as Carmen blurted out not to be angry with Danny, or the breeders--it was Durmont that had arranged for the dog. He had asked for the best of the upcoming litter, as a personal favor, before he.....died, she said. His instructions were clear: if he was 'unavailable', the pup was to be delivered here. They all considered it an honor to grant his request. Suddenly I knew that it was ALL Durmont, and made sure Carmen related to the program that another of his last wishes had been fulfilled. Smiling and teary-eyed, she had insisted on giving the puppy and me one hug each before she could get herself to leave.

After her departure, I sat staring down the excited furball. To his credit, the creature finally laid down in alert posture, but never broke eye contact. It is possible that we both finally blinked simultaneously, and then I called and had all the basics for dog care delivered with my groceries. This was merely a planned period of observation, not that I had come to any conclusions.

Internal Affairs was still fighting me. Their shrink refused to clear me for duty. In her judicial opinion, I was too disassociative for active duty, and had shown no signs of active grieving or healthy interactions with others. It had been nearly four months since my partner's death. I did not expect, nor desire, to be assigned another partner, and blatantly stated that my personal interactions outside the job were none of their business. (Which did not surprise them, me being the heir of Everything Durmont). There was no wrong doing on my part, no history before or after my suspension of drug use or excessive alcohol consumption, and no criminal contacts or evidence against me. Those facts seemed to get me nowhere. In a moment of inspiration at this latest round of examination, I casually mentioned that I had a dog. The psych's eyes lit up, and she practically said that she did not believe me. I gave her Carmen's number, and told her to come by and see for herself.

She came to my house, with the ever-irrepressible Carmen, to visit Prometheus, although for the shrink's benefit I said his name was Theo, because when he was first delivered, he looked like a teddy bear with a curly tail. Despite my deadpan demeanor, the women gushed over the number of toys and health of the dog, who had been there two months. That furnishings had appeared in the house, and there were packages still being unpacked seemed to encourage them further. I did not tell them that it was all continuing 'surprises' arranged by Durmont and the effects from his apartment that I had paid to have a moving company box-up and transfer over here. They had sat largely undisturbed for three weeks now. No matter. The dog got me reinstated.

Although the department had nothing concrete on my nocturnal activities, it was clearly strategic that they switched me to the 8-8 graveyard shift. My reassignment was to be the two-person division of coldcase files. We were to work independently, the overage rookie Faulkner and I, with him handling all of the human and animal-related cases and me the rest. It was meant to be a dead-end job, the brass choosing a pigeonhole for me that I was supposed to stay in. They must have thought I was like Durmont that way, only weaker. Cops are not supposed to underestimate, even other cops.

Most of my cases were larcenies, and applying my mentality, I quickly began to feel patterns connecting alot of these files. Intuition. Gut instinct. The things that make a great cop are not the things you can teach, someone once told me. Your senses are different from everyone else around you, and don't waste your time explaining, he would say. Just go with it, figure it out, and then gather the evidence to back it up. And that's what I had always done. I never handed anything to Durmont that was not airtight. Ready for the judge's signature was the error-free warrant paperclipped beside every report, colored tabs coordinating every form of evidence for fast reference. Defense attorneys got ulcers when they spotted one of my files. That always gave everyone on our side a surge of satisfaction. It's not hard playing the game when you know you're going to win.

That was how I was looking at this now. Within another month, I had busted a ring of 17 seemingly unrelated grand thefts, all masterminded by an elite caterer to pad his already outrageous profits. Commendation came from the mayor; ads thanking the city from the insurance companies. Alot of smaller cases were solved and items recovered, with a number of convictions. Pawn shops that had been fencing for a while were shut down. Crime rates dropped in several districts, as links in the chain snapped. The donations and rewards coming in all went to the officers auxiliary, largely to be administered to our disabled and survivors, and reluctant retirees. I was making my bones as a cop again and didn't take any crap in the meantime. Awards and letters they handed me went into the file cabinet, Durmont-style. There were no photos on my desk, no items of sentimentality or distinctly personal importance. Certainly nothing to distract me from the job, atleast that others could see. Which is why the brass told me to knock-off the overtime, and that I was under orders not to put it in as a volunteer, either.

A few weeks later, the brass called me back in to the office to 'voice concerns' that 'injuries from my unknown extracurricular activities were not as unnoticeable as I might think'. They threatened me with the shrink again, and I quoted them the statutes that specified why this was an inappropriate conversation. No cop is ever satisfied with an unanswered question, no matter how high they get promoted. Proximity to it being their actual job to know does not stop the compulsion to find out. Aware of this, I started leaving town to pursue my hobbies, and kept nothing at my house. Before too long, those asked to tail me got too frustrated and found something better to do. Then they pulled a Durmont on me, and sent Danny to my door.

We hadn't seen each other in atleast six months. Winter makes a good excuse, but now that the ice and white stuff were gone, people had an annoying habit of trying to chat me up. I looked out the window, and saw him standing outside the five-foot-high white pickets, staring up at the big house. He must have been thinking the same things I had when I first saw it. Telling myself to be nice to him, I kept in mind that in a way, he had been just as effected by Durmont, too. This was just as likely to have been Danny's home as mine. But some things are never meant to be, we just wish they were. More specifically, we wish that we were.

Shelving these thoughts, I went out to greet him. Prometheus kept pace with me all the way to the gate, then sat on his haunches with the blank cop stare that he'd inherited from me, fixed on Danny. Dan's eyes swirled with mixed emotions. This wasn't going to be easy, but I offered to have him come inside. With a ghost of a smile, he accepted. One of the things I always liked about him was the lack of pretenses. When I moved, I gave no forwarding address and used privacy blocking options--in writing--including at work. I hadn't even told Danny where the house was, just that I was moving and there was no relationship beaten us anymore. There was only one way he was here today, and that was someone in my precinct had put him up to it. I hadn't given him anything more than one goodbye, and he had never sought me out after I told him not to. He took his deepest wounding without even getting angry, which was what had made it harder on me. Today I was determined to give us both absolute closure.

Following me into the house, he had asked the dog's name, and smiled at 'Prometheus'. We had always agreed that we disliked people that gave animals demeaning names, nicknames more than real identities. Once we were in, I got us each a some cold caffeine, and he sat on the only couch talking to Prometheus, who seemed hesitant as to whether he should interact. 'Go get your rope', I told him, and he left to get his flossing rope, that was also designed as a tug-of-war toy. The concept of play was not something we had ever explored together. Once in a while I took him to the dog park, where he was let loose to play with his own kind. For my part, I had come to the conclusion that either there wasn't that for me out in the world or that it would be a really bad idea to have two of us in the same space. Maybe that was what Durmont was thinking on his last day.....

Something snapped me back into listening, and I realized that Danny had been talking to me. Without a clue as to what he had been saying, I looked at him alertly. He stammered what sounded like a repeat. 'Everyone has been worried about you. They hardly ever see you in the daytime, unless it's to see someone at the precinct or take the dog somewhere. Not that that's a bad thing, it's great that you got a dog, and he's beautiful'. With that, Danny turned his attention to Prometheus for a few minutes, petting the dog and finally getting an affectionate response. I saw that softness come into Danny's eyes, that my mind filed under 'love, and kindness', and saw the way the shepherd was beginning to react to seeing that after so long, and knew then how this was going to go. 'I'm really glad you came by, Danny, because I would like you to take Prometheus with you when you leave today.'

There had been a flutter of hope and joy in Danny's eyes, when he heard the 'glad' part, but as the rest hit him, he looked utterly dismayed. "I don't understand', he said a few times, different emotions sounding in each repetition. 'The truth is, Danny, he was just another obligation put on me by Durmont; another something that I really don't have room in my life for'. Dan sat for several long moments, letting that sink in. For the first time ever, I saw something close to the cop look on his face. 'I see. Sure, I would be glad to take him, I could use the company'. That surprised me, as Danny worked almost as many hours as I did, and had a big red Labrador that he's taken in as a charity case years ago. They were inseparable, but because of the lab's disabilities he couldn't handle his own with other big dogs, even in light play. 'Are you sure he will get along alright with Clarence?' Danny's eyes looked at me, and he told me that his best friend had died suddenly of a cancer that Danny had not detected. In a way, I knew what that was like. My heart almost stirred towards him, and that was enough to get my body moving faster, as I gathered together Prometheus's things, without another look at either of them. When it was atlast bundled into duffel bags, and I motioned them over to the front door, I verbally ran through everything I knew about the dog, which was basic facts and nothing personal. Without dwelling ont he thought, I knew Danny would catch that. Eagerly the dog sought the touch of his hand as they went through the door, and I carried the duffels and loaded them in Danny's too-familiar car. Then the two of them turned to me, the same look of apprehension over leaving me, here, like this, in both their eyes. Unable to say anything to that look, I nodded once curtly, turned on my heel and went back in the house. No looking back, no regrets, I was going to survive. And I no longer had a reason to go out in the daytime either. Life was not good, but it was certainly getting simpler. What cop didn't appreciate the value of that?

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So it was no surprise when I got called into the chief's office a week later, and informed in writing that I was again required to be examined by our shrink. When I opened my mouth to fight it, he told me that it was officially handed down from Durmont's former FBI recruiter. Coincidence? I think not. Arguing that I had never considered myself a candidate for the feds or even an inter-forces liaison, would have no effect. Application was not always required for them to express interest. I thought I was safe from this, being Durmont's partner, and then staying in his precinct after he ended things the way he did. For a cop to refuse such an 'honor' was to admit that cop had something to hide. This was not a game I wanted to play, even if I thought I would win it.

Somewhere in the middle of it, in fact, I refused to play. It was at the point when I had busted another stolen goods racket, this one married closely to an immigrant-smuggling operation. The word came down that the governor was coming to help take credit for it, even though it was a city bust, and specifically me and Faulkner's two-man operation. The only reason I had taken him along was I was required to call for back-up if I was in a situation where I expected to have to draw my gun. This led to several cars being called, while we buffaloed the 'suspects' into believing that we already had the place surrounded, and the evidence already in hand. In the end, there were more than a dozen arrests, with the feds taking it from there to go after the bigger names. More than 45 immigrants were recovered alive locked in storage units, with a body count still climbing as dumpsites were located for those less fortunate. Some of the survivors were child laborers and young women used as drug mules, who were taken in by I.N.S. to determine which ones would be offered citizenship. As Durmont said, you can't save them all.

A big press conference was being held, and the mayor expected me to speak this time, instead of just hide behind Durmont's big suit, like I had in the past. That did not please me, and I knew it was nonnegotiable. Resorting to older tactics, I made sure my hair was no less than 3 colors, despite the otherwise formal appearance. Ignoring this, the FBI handlers approached me while the mayor was introducing the governor at the podium. I stood waiting just off camera, my infamous color-tabbed case file in my hand, the summer breeze pulling bright streamers from my hair. The lead smiled at me, sliding behind my back, and leaned over my shoulder to talk into my ear. Although my 'intake' was not going well, they planned to announce my induction into the bureau after the governor's speech, when the mayor would have me lead a recap of the case and list the glories for the local departments on up. That was when I let it be implied that if either they or my commanding officers continued to push me, that I would make some noise about it, publicly.

There is something about a fed's face that exceeds that of other flavors of cop. Stoniness is one ingredient, but scariness is another. Although I can neither describe the differences nor be effected by either of them, there is definitely a psychological chasm between them. When my failure to be afraid made its point to them, the feds disappeared. Game over, but neither of us was going to win, I was sure of it. Immediately following the flawless press conference, I was escorted into the mayor's limo. Keeping me company were enough armed men to fill the rest of the space, until my chief and the mayor himself displaced some of them to the outside. With a calm voice and angry stare, the mayor explained to me the chief had 'just made him aware of the particulars of my personal situation', and arrangements had been made through the governor's financial reserves for me to go on an extended vacation, with full pay, beginning immediately. The chief chimed in that even though I had continually applied for other openings in the department, the only one I was qualified for transfer to was an opening in undercover ops. Now that I had appeared on national news, colors flying in more ways that one, there was no way I could ever go back to that, despite my exemplary record. Really, there was no other option. The mayor also assured me there would be no other opportunities coming up for me, in this half of the states. Both men smiled their politicians smiles at me then, and ordered their men to escort me straight home, as I was anxious to start my vacation.

After that, I had no reason to leave the house at all. On the bright side, I filled each room of the house with a different theme. Workout room, weights room, weapons room (although I had to be creative in getting the weapons in surreptitiously, and few were ever in plain sight at once). I was biding my time. The universe revolves, and if you wait for it, anything will eventually coma round. As is the nature of it, the opportunity will likely come in af form different from what you thought it would, and at the time you least expect.

So it was. Early one Sunday afternoon, I was looking out of my window, an old tingle running up and down my spine. One cruiser passed in front, followed by atleast two unmarked cars, and several media vans chasing behind them. Automatically, I put on my holster and regulation piece, new-silver and shiny from being oiled so much and fired so little, and clipped my badge to the front of the running suit I was wearing. Locking up behind me, I pulled my hair into a ponytail and trotted out the gate. The commotion was coming from less than two blocks away, where our avenue ended in a small cul-de-sac, in front of an enormous family home. It was immaculately white and had dark green clapboards siding each window. That was as much as I had noticed about it in the two years I had lived in this neighborhood, partly because I was rarely out during the day, and also as I was studiously rejecting the type of invasive human contact neighbors seemed to expect was their right. Therefore, I knew very little about the property or people that lived there. In memory, there would be station wagons with people unloading children or groceries during the daytime, but curiously the scene seemed so stereotypical of what I was avoiding, that I could not tell you if it was the same people the handful of times that I had passed by.

Today there were more than a dozen vehicles from several agencies forming a side-by-side blockade of the cul-de-sac, and both local and federal swat teams suiting-up on this side of the barricade. Newsreporters swarmed like bees, trying to find openings in the growing numbers of uniforms and protesters adding layers to the ring around the action. Starting with officers that were not likely to know who I was, I cut through the crowd to ask what for details about the situation. 'Hostage', was the consensus. Next I tried the protesters. Some independent polygamy group told me that one of their 'heroes' was holed-up inside with a number of his wives and their offspring, and that the government was setting the stage for a suburban Ruby Ridge. A womens' rights group began shouting back at them that he was a criminal, and that there was alot more to what 'that monster' was doing that warranted him getting his head blown off. I chose a young member of their group, wearing a 'Violence Free' T-shirt, and asked her to give me a rundown of the facts that they believed they had against him. She handed me a stapled manifest, listing crimes including sexual abuse of other women and children, and dozens of other forms of deviancy and flagrant law-breaking, which he was both convicted and suspected of in multiple states. Another section was names, descriptions and photos of women and children who were now listed as missing persons by their families and sometimes husbands/fathers. All of them were believed, known or photographed before or after the fact with the suspect being targeted here today, Drew Brennan.

Mentally I tried to commit as much to memory as I could while beginning to formulate my strategy. First thing I would need to do was see who was in charge. Not too surprising after only fifteen month's passing, in the hub of the action were my estranged but current police chief, and one of the FBI liaisons from the press conference I had last seen them both at. From what I could ascertain, the standoff had been going on for about eighteen, twenty hours, and had started over neighbors' reports of a bloody trash bag being found hidden in the shrubs outside the house.

The negotiator on call for this district did not have a very good track record. Bad enough, in fact, that he was white as a sheet and sweating buckets as the tally of women and children believed to be alive in the house kept climbing. He was hiding sheepishly behind some of the swat, squatting down and talking into a phone, with the man of the house apparently on the other end. Suddenly he was heard saying 'No, no, you don't want to do that!', as a very large blonde woman bounced the front door open long enough to fire a shotgun blast into the air, before slamming it again. Several people were hit by the ricocheting pellets, but there didn't seem to be any major injuries. This out a stop to the encroachment on all sides of the swat and snipers. There were specialists spitting words angrily at both the chief and the fed, and I caught exchanges regarding the establishment of multiple hostages with Stockholm Syndrome, and the fact that no type of smoke, gas or other chemical agent could be used that would not be likely to be fatal to atleast the youngest of the children and babies known to be inside. Brennan had promised that if he was not granted demands that had long ago abandoned 'being left alone' and gone into greater levels of extortion, 'it would be necessary to begin sacrificing one family member at a time, to better the chances of the rest to escape to a better life'. In short, he was a sociopath, and didn't plan on anyone leaving there alive, so this was just milking all the sick drama out of it he could in his remaining hours. This man wanted to be famous, and they had given him a way to never be forgotten. Martyrdom is one of the strangest things to understand or prevent in another person. But I learned from the best, and I was determined that this situation not be allowed to be about Drew Brennan or the issues to which he expected everyone to subscribe.

With that in mind, I shoved my way directly up to the two men that wanted to see me the least in this world. Both of them were slack jawed when they realized who was approaching them, and a startle went out from the immediate ring of people around us. Did they really think I was a ghost? It was the fed who clarified that they 'had it on good authority that I was not in the area anymore', and demanded to know what I was doing 'compromising their operation with my presence'. The chief stared at me contemptuously as I informed the handler that I lived about 1000 feet away, and had never gone anywhere else since starting my 'vacation'. As they exchanged glances, I told them that I wanted an opportunity to talk to Drew Brennan. Derisive laughter came from the chief's mouth, but I focused on the fed, leaning heavily on the fact that I had been Durmont's partner for years, and everyone believed the old man had taught me everything he knew. At that, the chief said "Yes, too well", and I snapped towards him. Just as quickly, I turned my anger aside, realizing I could use the chief thinking that there had been no secrets between me and my partner to my advantage. From what Violence Free had told me, this home had been in Brennan's hands for over 10 years, and before his recent settling here, it was believed he had used the house to rotate or hide his 'acquired family members'. So I looked the fed in the eyes, matching flint for flint, and told him that Durmont had been acquaintances with Brennan, and warned me the guy was some sort of polyamory or polygamy nut. Althought I had never been friendly of any of the women (not surprising to anyone who knew me or my profile), Brennan had seemed 'overly interested in me'. Such as: when I used to walk my dog through the neighborhood, Drew would go out of his way to find an excuse to talk to me, and that was one of the reasons I had given away the dog, was to deflect unwanted attention in general. Certainly I had never had reason to suspect anything was going on over here, but likely the fact that I obviously lived alone, was a recluse, and no family, made me very appealing to my neighbor.

It was all a lie, and a very huge gamble--if I had been capable of emotion or either of these men had really known me at all. The fact was that since this guy didn't make most of the classic mistakes, such as advertise his personal beliefs (especially in the guise of a new or already flagged religion), apply for public assistance, participate in internet websites, hold membership in any organized group, show signs of being militia, such as stockpiling guns, weapons or substances, and never spoke publicly against the government, he simply was not a priority. Despite the allegations of families that he knew information about alot of missing people, and his convictions for various charges in other states, no effort had been made to track the man himself and establish that he had been hiding-out in his house for almost the same years, and in the same way, that I had been in mine. Which is also why they didn't know anything about me, living in the same neighborhood as we were.

Neither man could organize his thoughts, evidently. Meanwhile, we heard more shots and screams coming form inside the house, and a 22 nosed out of the crack in an upstairs bathroom window and shot one of our snipers getting into position on the back of the house. Enough was enough. Making a show of my fury, I dramatically removed my badge near the front of the squadcar. Slamming it down on the hood, I screamed, 'I can see alot of good this will do me'. Then going for my spare piece, from my pocket, I feigned as if it were coming out of my holster, checked the safety on it, and tossed it to the chief, shouting 'I guess I'm a civilian now, and sprinted for the front door like I was chasing a mugger. No one expected it, and chaos erupted, as I pounded on the front door, yelling for Drew by name. Half from curiosity as to why all hell was breaking loose out front, and half from the sound of a pleading and frantic female voice, he could not stop himself from opening the door.

There were two things that Durmont told me to remember when walking into a hostage situation. The leader had to be made to feel in control of the situation at all times, and that the more hostages, the more impulsive the leader was likely to become, especially as the tension escalated. Never push a button unless you are sure what it will do, and that is exactly what you need to flip the situation without them realizing it. You had to volunteer to be the puppet, and then get the master to move you the way you wanted. The goal was to get in between the leader and the hostages, no matter what the means, and at the least loss of life possible. Never give them anything that is an asset, unless it is an emergency move because you are sure that someone is about to die, and this is the only way to buy them more time. Nothing less than death warranted that kind of dangerous intervention. However, once the violence started, it would escalate steeply, each act a competitive showmanship that must top the one before it. Once people started to die, many would die quickly. And the number one rule: once that happens, you will be lucky to save any at all. Anything beyond that, there are no rules until you reach the other side, called aftermath. That is when terms like 'collateral damage' replace the real math, and the cover-up begins to collapse in on itself.
God save you all, if you believe in such things.

I believed in very few things. For a long time, I believed in Durmont, and he believed in me. That meant that though the man had discredited himself, I still believed in myself, even if that was illogical. One of the greatest compliments I had ever gotten was following an unplanned shootout with a suspect downtown. Then the cop who failed to kill the gunman before I did turned to me and said, 'You know I admire the way you always run towards whatever everyone is running away from screaming, 'Help Me'". Said cop also publicly certified me as crazy on multiple occasions, and requested not to be assigned my partner when I had been reinstated. There was because of something else I had learned long before I met Durmont, that I still knew to be true: evil is real. It has its own forms, but sometimes it chooses to live in humans, turning them into monsters. There are some monsters that you can only defeat by being the bigger monster. And with that thought, I threw myself into Drew Brennan's arms, kicking the door closed behind me

 

[elfin_odalisque]

Flame, welcome to the menagerie and thanks for posting. We don't bite (except for sr) and we try to help in our various styles.

Avoiding contests and all the things you don't like, you can post stories and poems here in the great co-operativeof literotica without any commercial pressure. Just click on 'Submissions' on the Site Contents page and all will be explained.

Your story is well written but is more the beginning of a novel than a short story. Also, it is not erotic but there is a non-erotic story category here.

In the extract you have posted here, you explain too much and delay getting into the action of the story. Sure, developing the characters is crucial, but you seem to dwell on that more than advancing the action.

I think you need to focus on whether you are writing a short story or a novel.

 

[FireFlavored]

Just bumping up, part 2 added

I would like feedback on this story, and suggestion of a title. I thought "Hostage" and "Negotiations" were too pat/overdone. For those of you that read part 1 & remember it, please skip down to part 2. The final part will be added in the next day or so.