Chapter 7 The Inspector’s Hint
Ryan
I pressed the pen into the incident report until the paper nearly tore.
As if I could somehow stab last night's memory away.
Hawley's fingers twisting in my shirt. His voice a dangerous whisper against my ear.
Menacing. The cheap ballpoint skipped, forcing me to scribble harder.
My hand moved with the same frustrated energy that had kept me up until dawn.
"Defensive posture." I copied his margin note verbatim. "No premeditation apparent." Such clinical language for how he'd watched me. Cold on the surface. Something else burning underneath. Something I couldn't name and didn't want to understand.
Robot. That's what he was. A procedure-following, emotion-suppressing automaton who'd rather let an innocent man face excessive charges than stick his neck out.
Phones rang incessantly. Officers shuffled between workstations with disposable coffee cups clutched like lifelines. Somewhere in the back, a printer jammed for the third time this hour. Detective Park let out creative curses.
I tapped my pen. Remembered how his face had flashed when I called him a coward. For a split second I'd seen something real. Anger. Frustration. Maybe even doubt. Then he'd gone still again. Robot Hawley returned.
"Detective Carlson."
I jerked my head up at Murphy's summons. He stood in his office doorway. Fluorescent lights caught the silver at his temples. His perpetual five o'clock shadow looked like midnight. Nothing in his bearing gave anything away.
"My office." He disappeared back inside.
Perfect. Just what I needed. A lecture about last night's investigation. Or worse, about my "failure to integrate" with my new partner. I straightened my tie. Plastered on my most professionally neutral face. Crossed the bullpen.
Murphy sat behind his workspace. Reading glasses perched low on his nose as he scanned what appeared to be a report. His sleeves were rolled up. Weathered forearms. A Catholic rosary looped over his left wrist. He didn't glance up as I entered.
"Sit."
I lowered myself into the chair opposite him. Fought the urge to fidget as silence stretched between us. The station map behind him was dotted with colored pins. The faded calendar on the wall still hadn't been changed.
When he finally raised his head, his gaze was sharp despite the fatigue etched around it.
"How's the adjustment going, Detective?" He removed his glasses, set them on top of the folder.
I straightened. "Fine, sir. We're making progress."
"Progress." He tested the word for lies. "Is that what you call nearly coming to blows at a crime scene on your first investigation together?"
My stomach dropped. Of course someone had reported our confrontation. Probably Min, who'd been hovering nearby during our argument.
"It was a professional disagreement about the evidence, sir. Nothing personal."
Murphy leaned back. Studied me with unnerving intensity. "And the housing arrangement?"
"Challenging but manageable." No need to mention that my partner and I had barely exchanged three words this morning.
Or that I'd deliberately used all the hot water during my shower out of spite.
The Service-assigned apartment was functional enough.
Standardized furniture. Two small bedrooms. A surveillance camera in the building entrance.
Living with him felt like sharing space with a particularly hostile filing cabinet.
"Manageable." The same skeptical inflection. "Interesting choice of words."
"I heard your first investigation with Hawley went roughly. I also heard you two argued at the scene. Loudly."
My neck heated with embarrassment. Our disagreement had become station gossip. Of course it had. Nothing traveled faster than rumors in a station this small.
"Sir, with all due respect, he's impossible to work with. Stubborn. Inflexible. Treats the rulebook like sacred scripture." The words tumbled out before I could stop them. Frustration overwhelming my usual careful diplomacy.
Murphy's mouth twitched with what might be amusement. "And I suppose his methodical approach might counterbalance your... improvisational tendencies." The way he emphasized the final words made his meaning clear.
"My 'improvisational tendencies' got a confession and clarified what really happened. Meanwhile, he was too busy measuring blood spatter to see the human element."
My entire career at 52 had been built on reading people.
On knowing when to push and when to pull back.
Well-timed questions or strategic rapport closed more cases than most officers managed with warrant stacks.
Now I was stuck with a partner who believed police work was all about measuring knife angles and blood patterns.
Murphy steepled his fingers. He studied me with calm intensity, the kind reserved for officers who'd seen every type of ego. "Interesting perspective, considering his preliminary evaluation."
"What about it?" I was suddenly wary of the Inspector's tone. There was something underneath it I couldn't identify.
Murphy reached for the folder, flipped it open.
"In his evaluation, he noted that your interview technique with the girlfriend revealed inconsistencies in the victim's story that would have been missed otherwise.
" A glance up. "He also acknowledged that your theory of self-defense has merit, pending further investigation. "
I blinked. Speechless for a moment. He'd actually written that? After all his procedural protests and that argument where he'd practically pinned me to the patio wall?
"He... documented that?"
"Not in those exact words. His phrasing was considerably more technical. But the essence was there."
I leaned back. Thrown off-balance. Last night, my partner had been a wall of rigid opposition. This morning, he'd barely acknowledged me over instant coffee from the 7-Eleven down the block. Now I was hearing he'd validated my approach in an official document?
"He has his methods. They may seem cold to you, but they're effective.
Just as your techniques, while occasionally reckless, get results.
" Murphy closed the folder with a decisive snap.
"The point of this program isn't to make you into the same officer.
It's to create a functional unit that leverages both your strengths. "
I ran a hand through my hair, trying to process the shift. "Sir, with all due respect, I don't think he's interested in leveraging anything except maybe my neck between his hands."
"And yet he credited your insight in his report.
" Murphy leaned forward. "Carlson, I know your reputation from 52.
The golden boy. The charmer. The one who could talk his way into or out of anything.
" His face hardened slightly. "That approach has limits.
Just as his by-the-book rigidity has limits. "
The implied criticism stung more than I wanted to admit. "So what exactly do you want from me, Inspector?"
"I want you to stop seeing this assignment as punishment and start seeing it as an opportunity. He has skills you lack. You have qualities he needs. Figure out how to work together, or I'll have two promising careers to explain away to the brass."
I swallowed hard. The weight of his ultimatum sat in my chest. "Yes, sir."
"One more thing." Murphy picked up his glasses but didn't put them on. "He's been through experiences you don't understand yet. His... adherence to procedure isn't just stubbornness. Remember that."
Something in his tone made me pause. There was history there. Layers I couldn't see.
"I'll try, sir."
"Good." He nodded toward the door. "Now get back to work."
I left in a daze. My previous anger replaced by confusion and a strange, uncomfortable feeling that might have been shame. The bullpen noise faded to a dull hum as I walked back. Murphy's words echoed in my head.
He's been through experiences you don't understand yet.
What experiences? What could possibly explain my new partner? The by-the-book attitude had seemed like the mark of a small-minded officer who'd never learned to think beyond procedure. But Murphy's tone suggested layers beneath. Complexity that made me feel like an ass for my assumptions.
I slumped into my chair. Stared at the empty workspace across from mine. Suddenly it all looked less like rigidity and more like discipline learned the hard way.
Why would someone need to be so controlled? What happens when control slips?
Last night flashed back. The fire in his gaze when I'd pushed him too far. The way his tone had dropped to that dangerous whisper. For a split second, something raw had surfaced. Then, just as quickly, he'd pulled it back. Set his jaw. Returned to procedure.
And then he'd gone and written an evaluation that acknowledged my insights.
I ran my fingers through my hair, frustrated by the contradiction. At 52, people had been straightforward. Ambitious. Sometimes cutthroat. But I'd always known where I stood. Here at 51 Division, nothing made sense. Especially not my silent, stone-faced roommate.
I spotted Reid passing by with an armful of folders. His forehead creased in concentration as he balanced the stack.
"Hey, Reid. Any idea where he disappeared to?"
Reid stopped. Shifted the load in his arms to get a better grip. Surprise widened his face, like I'd asked something unexpected.
"If he's not working or sleeping, he's probably at the gym down the street. Parliament Boxing Club. He goes there most days after shift."
"Boxing?" I couldn't hide my surprise. I'd pictured him doing something regimented and solitary. Running, perhaps. Or swimming laps with mechanical precision. Not something as visceral as that.
"Yeah, he's been going there for ages. Though nobody really talks to him about it. It's just... where he goes."
I tapped my pen, digesting this new information. The controlled release of violence within strict rules. It made a strange kind of sense.
"Has he always been so..."
"Intense?" Reid supplied, adjusting his grip again. "I've only been here eight months, but Detective Park says he used to be different. Before some investigation went bad a few winters ago. No one talks about it, but it changed him."
An investigation gone bad. That tracked with what Murphy had hinted at.
"Thanks, Reid."
He nodded and kept walking, leaving me with more questions than answers.
I stared at the half-completed forms, thinking about the contradictions. Fighting with me over procedure, then validating my approach in his report. Cold one minute, then spending his free time behind closed doors, working out whatever he carried.
I want to know him.
The thought arrived plain and unwelcome.
Before I could talk myself out of it, I grabbed my jacket. Driven by a sudden need to confront him about the evaluation. To understand why he'd argue one position and document another. Or maybe, though I wouldn't admit it, to understand the man himself.
Reid had said the gym was where Hawley went when he wasn't working or sleeping. Three blocks away. Close enough that I could walk there before my courage failed me.
What I didn't know yet was that some doors, once opened, can never be closed again.