Chapter 23 Desk Duty
Ryan
"Never thought I'd be happy to see this place." Rolling my shoulders released some of the tension built up during our visit.
Hawley offered a slight nod. As close to agreement as he typically managed. We made our way through the bullpen. Acknowledged Reid who smiled brightly before returning to his call. Even Sergeant Saunders's usual glare felt comfortingly predictable.
"Carlson." Hawley's voice was quieter than usual.
"What?" I followed his line of sight toward the Inspector's office.
Through the glass, Murphy sat at his desk. Clearly ending a phone call. Nothing revealing in that stern countenance he always wore. Yet something about his posture made my skin prickle. He arranged papers with methodical precision. Lined up edges with unusual care.
"He already knows something." I straightened my tie. Fixed my most confident smile in place.
Murphy gestured us in with a subtle wave. The weathered lines around his face seemed deeper today. Like someone had carved new grooves of concern into his skin overnight. My back straightened instinctively as we entered.
"Sir." A nod. Hawley took up position beside me.
The energy that had been building since leaving 52 came pouring out as I detailed our findings.
I described the altered files with precise detail.
Dates that had been shifted. Names systematically removed.
Connections deliberately erased. How Voss had staged the entire interrogation.
How Marshall's rehearsed testimony pointed to multiple officers involved in leaking informant identities.
"It's a coordinated cover-up, sir." I leaned forward. "They've sanitized the records to hide who really had access to CI information. Protecting someone, or several people."
"The security footage shows a police vehicle near Daniel's attack location." Hawley's deep voice filled the small office with quiet authority. "Minutes before the estimated time of the assault. Disappears for twenty minutes, then reappears heading back toward 52."
"Sir, with your authorization, we can request the unaltered digital backups from central records. If we move quickly before they realize what we've found..."
Murphy's face darkened as we spoke. The lines around his mouth deepening into furrows. He never looked away. Studied us with an intensity that made me increasingly uncomfortable. When we finished, he stayed silent for a beat too long. Tapping rhythmically against a manila folder on his desk.
"That call I just finished was about you, Carlson." A tap on the folder before him.
My confident smile faltered. Something in his tone sent a chill down my spine.
"There's talk of reopening your IA file."
The words hit like a physical blow. I blinked. Tried to process.
"What? Why now?" Genuinely confused. Still standing while Hawley had already taken a seat, sensing what was coming. My unsteady legs gave out. I sank into the chair.
Murphy exhaled slowly. Maintained steady eye contact. "Someone has been pushing the issue up the chain of command. Suggesting new evidence has emerged that you were directly responsible for the leak that compromised your informants."
"That's ridiculous." Heat rising in my cheeks. "I was cleared..."
"You were transferred. There's a difference."
Blood drained from my face as the implications sank in. The investigation into Voss had triggered exactly what Hawley warned about. A counterattack.
"IA hasn't confirmed yet, but they're looking. The timing of your 52 visit couldn't be worse."
My mind raced. Connecting the dots. Voss must have made a call. The interrogation. The altered files. The staged witness. All part of a larger strategy to bury the truth and frame me as the scapegoat. Again.
"They're trying to discredit me before I can expose them." The words sounded hollow even to my own ears.
"Or using your investigation as an opportunity to finish what they started." Hawley's quiet addition from beside me.
Murphy's attention shifted between us. "Whatever their motivation, they want you out. Badly."
"Sir, we found evidence. The altered files, the security footage..."
"Evidence that would be your word against theirs. And right now, your word doesn't carry much weight with the brass."
The truth of his statement stung more than any direct accusation could have. Years building my reputation, only to watch it crumble in a matter of weeks. Now, when it mattered most, that same damaged reputation was being used as a weapon against me.
I glanced at Hawley. Searched for something. Support, anger, anything. But that carefully neutral expression stayed in place. His attention fixed on the Inspector.
"What happens now?" Steadier than what churned inside.
"I need you to step back from this investigation." Murphy leaned back. Watched me with those weathered features that seemed to see through every performance I'd ever given.
"What?" The word escaped before I could stop it. The composure I'd been holding all day finally giving. "No. Sir, with all due respect..."
"Carlson..."
"They're coming after me. This is exactly what they want. If I back off now, Voss wins. They all win." I stood up. Couldn't stay still. "We have evidence of tampering. The security footage. We..."
"Detective." The Inspector's tone stayed steady while mine spiraled upward.
"If I walk away now, I'll never clear my name. They're framing me all over again!" Raw and unfiltered, bursting out. I hadn't raised my voice like this since the day they'd transferred me out of 52. "I did nothing wrong. Nothing. And they're trying to bury me... again."
Murphy rose. His authority filling the small office like a physical presence. Those lines deepened as he squared his shoulders. "This isn't a suggestion. It's an order."
The silence that followed felt like a slap. I stared at him. Searched for some sign he understood what he was asking. To walk away. Again. To let them win. Again.
Then, unexpectedly, Hawley's deep baritone broke through.
"Sir, removing Carlson now validates their tactics. We have evidence of tampering. Pulling him off sends a message that intimidation works."
I turned to look at him. Surprised by the support. Hawley stayed impassive, but something new flickered there. Resolve, maybe. Loyalty.
The Inspector cut him off with a raised hand. "Evidence that could disappear if Carlson stays visibly involved. Think strategically. They're watching his every move. Expecting him to charge back in. Counting on it."
I paced the small office. Ran hands through my hair. Didn't care about ruining the styling I'd spent fifteen minutes on this morning. The familiar weight of injustice pressed against my chest. Made it hard to breathe.
"So I just sit on my hands while they bury me? I've been here before, sir. If I don't fight back, they win by default."
Murphy exhaled slowly. When he spoke again, his tone had softened. His posture stayed firm. "I'm not abandoning this, Carlson. But you need distance, official distance, while I work through channels."
"Channels. The same ones that transferred me here instead of clearing my name? Those channels?"
"Different ones. Ones they don't know I have."
I stopped mid-pace. Turned toward him fully. The betrayal must have been written all over my face. "You're sidelining me from my own case. My own life."
The Inspector reached for a manila folder on his desk and slid it toward me. "Temporary reassignment. Desk duty. Keep your head down."
I stared at the folder without touching it. The beige paper seemed to mock me. So similar to the transfer orders that had ended my career at 52. History repeating itself in crisp, official documentation.
"This is wrong. You know it's wrong."
"Yes. It is. But sometimes we have to lose ground to win the war."
Hawley shifted beside me. His presence oddly steadying in the midst of this new betrayal. He didn't speak. But his attention weighed on me. Waited for a response.
My hand trembled as I finally reached for the folder. The weight felt disproportionate to its actual size. As if it contained not just reassignment orders but the sum of all my professional failures.
"How long?"
"Until I say otherwise. Keep your head down. That's an order."
From the moment I left the Inspector's office, I became empty and numb.
The station fell away in silence. The reassignment folder clutched like a death certificate. Hawley walked beside me. Not speaking. Not trying to fill the void with empty reassurances. Grateful for that much, at least.
Outside, Toronto had moved into its evening shift. Office workers streamed from buildings, laughing about dinner plans. Couples under the street lamps. Delivery bikes weaving through traffic. Everyone going about their normal lives while mine collapsed around me. Again.
I walked stiffly. Each step requiring conscious effort. Left foot. Right foot. Don't falter. Don't break. Not here. Not now. The folder felt impossibly heavy. Like it contained all my failures instead of just a few sheets of paper.
Hawley stayed closer than usual. His presence watchful. His attention checking on me every few seconds. The Ryan Carlson who charmed his way through press conferences and flirted with witnesses had gone somewhere I couldn't reach. Whatever was walking these streets now wasn't him.
"He's right, you know. Strategically speaking."
I stopped abruptly. Spun toward him with a flash of anger that burned through the numbness. "Don't. Just... don't."
We completed the rest of the walk to our government-assigned apartment in silence.
Each step felt like moving through concrete.
My body growing heavier as reality sank deeper.
By the time we reached our door, identical to every other door in the Service housing block, my hands were shaking so badly the lock wouldn't cooperate.
Hawley gently took the keys and opened it for me.
The moment the door closed behind us, I yanked at my tie with jerky movements. Desperate to breathe. The knot caught. Tightened instead of loosening. I pulled harder. Movements clumsy with frustration.
I tossed the reassignment folder onto the standardized table. It slid across the surface and fell to the floor. Papers spilling out like entrails. Neither of us moved to pick it up.
"This is exactly what happened before. They're using the same playbook. First they isolate you. Then they discredit you. Then they bury you."
Hawley leaned against the wall. Watched with that unreadable look. His stillness only highlighted my own chaotic movement as pacing consumed the small living room.
I moved to the kitchen, then back. Couldn't stay still. The shaking wouldn't stop. "You don't understand what this means. If they reopen the investigation, if they pin this on me..." My throat constricted. "I won't just lose my badge. I'll lose everything."
The room seemed to be shrinking. The air pressing in. Heart hammering against my ribs like it was trying to escape. Not enough air.
"They're going to win, and I can't stop them, and nobody's going to believe me because why would they? I'm just the pretty boy who messed up, right? I'm just..."
Words broke completely. I pressed my hands against my temples. Tried to hold back the humiliating burn of tears. My legs suddenly weak, like they might give out.
Hawley stayed motionless. Watched me come apart piece by piece. Took in every tremor. Every fractured breath. Silent. His attention never wavered. A silent witness to my unraveling.
I didn't hear Hawley move away. My breaths came too fast. Too shallow. Filled my ears with the sound of panic. Not until the faucet squeaked on did I register his absence. The familiar domestic sound of running water cut through the roaring in my head. Provided a momentary point of stillness.
My legs finally gave out. I sank to the floor. Spine against the wall. Dropped my head into cupped hands. The apartment's worn surface pressed against my tailbone. Barely registered. Everything had narrowed to the thundering of my pulse and the tightness in my chest.
I didn't look up when Hawley's footsteps returned. The sound stopped in front of me. A shadow fell across my hunched form.
"Drink this."
I raised my head to see Hawley standing over me. A glass of water extended. That unreadable look stayed in place, but something in his eyes had softened. Not pity. Something quieter. Understanding, maybe.
I reached for the glass. Coordination had abandoned me. Violent shaking sent ripples across the water's surface. When I finally grasped it, the glass rattled against my teeth. Water sloshed over the rim. Spilled down my chin and onto my shirt.
"I can't..." I started. The words died in my throat as the glass slipped away.
It shattered against the floor with a sound like breaking ice. Splashed water everywhere.
"I can't do this again."
Words cracking open. All the emotions suppressed since my transfer. The shame. The anger. The fear. Rushing up all at once.
Not again.
"I can't be their scapegoat again."
Shoulders beginning to shake. I tried to hold it back. To maintain some shred of dignity. Too late.
The careful version of me I'd held together for months collapsed completely. A sob tore from my throat. Raw and ugly.