Chapter 4 Raelynn #2
I nod, doing my best to absorb everything while my eyes dart from shelf to shelf. There’s something eerie about seeing personal belongings reduced to sealed plastic bags and barcodes.
Next, we enter the Forensics Lab—a stark, white room that hums with quiet intensity.
Sleek computers line one side, and lab equipment glints under the bright overhead lights.
There’s a distinct chemical smell in the air, not unpleasant, but sterile.
Two techs are hunched over a workstation, murmuring as they study something under a microscope.
“This is where we process fingerprints, DNA, trace fibers, and anything else our officers bring in,” Rodriguez says, keeping her voice low so we don’t interrupt. “We coordinate with the state lab for more complex testing, but most of the preliminary work is done here.”
It’s fascinating—and a little intimidating. I feel like if I so much as breathe too hard, I’ll mess up a crime scene.
From there, we move past the holding cells—Rodriguez doesn’t stop to linger, just gives a brief nod toward the area and keeps going—and down a corridor lined with bulletin boards, each one filled with memos, department updates, BOLOs, and mugshots.
We briefly go over where ammunition and guns are stored and where officers gather the things they’ll need for a shift before finally reaching the room for roll call.
It’s larger than I expected, with rows of plastic folding chairs and steel tables with wooden tops, arranged in a tight formation and a whiteboard at the front cluttered with shift schedules, recent case numbers, and scribbled notes from the graveyard shift.
“This is where every shift starts,” she says, stepping aside to let me take it in. “Briefings, assignments, case updates—it all happens here. You’ll check in here most mornings before heading off to your designated tasks. I don’t have any tasks for you today, so I’m having you do a ride-along.”
The energy in the room is quiet, expectant. Officers are beginning to filter in, some still sipping coffee, while others scan the board or chat in low voices. It’s clear this is the calm before the storm.
Rodriguez turns to me with a nod. “Any questions so far?”
I shake my head. “Not yet. Just… a lot to take in.”
Her lips curve into a comforting smile. “That’s normal. First days are always like that. Don’t worry, you’re doing fine.”
I return her smile, nerves flickering just beneath the surface.
“Have a seat. I’ll let you know who you’re riding with when I dismiss everyone,” she says, gesturing to one of the front tables.
I head to the table closest to me, the one just off to the left of the podium, and settle into the plastic chair. I immediately tug at the hem of my blouse, smoothing the fabric over my front and giving the back a discreet pull to ensure it’s not riding up.
Almost like a bell had gone off, officers finish filtering into the room, their casual chatter filling the space as they took their seats. Some carry coffee, and others drop into seats without looking up. The energy shifts quickly from quiet anticipation to something more alive.
Two officers step up to the front of the room alongside Sergeant Rodriguez. One of them—the younger-looking of the pair—immediately draws my attention.
If I had to guess, he’s in his late twenties, Hispanic, and stands at least 6'2".
His build is lean but solid, with just enough muscle to make his presence known, even through the Kevlar vest strapped to his chest. While some officers chose to wear the long-sleeved uniforms, he has opted for the short-sleeved black uniform shirt, which fully displays the black and white tattoo sleeve of a snake slithering through a garden of roses wrapped around his left arm.
His black hair is cropped short, the ends curling slightly where they meet his forehead. Under the fluorescent lights, his light brown eyes almost appear golden, sharp, and observant beneath subtly furrowed brows. A neatly trimmed beard and mustache frame a jawline so defined it looks carved.
He glances my way—just for a second. His expression is unreadable, calm. Not hostile… but definitely not inviting either. Then, without a word, he turns his attention back to the quiet conversation he’s having with Rodriguez and the older officer.
He gives off a grumpy vibe. And if I had to bet, I’d say he’s the one I’ll be riding with.
Lovely.
Eventually, he and the older officer take a seat at a table behind me, and my shoulders tense slightly as Rodriguez steps up to the podium.
“Alright, settle down,” she says, her voice firm but easy. The hum of conversation dies almost instantly, giving way to quiet focus. I do a quick scan of the room—twenty-something officers, all in varying stages of alertness—and then shift my attention back to Rodriguez.
“First things first,” Rodriguez says, her voice carrying easily across the room, “we’ve got a new intern joining us today.”
She gestures in my direction—a silent cue to stand. As she continues, I push myself up from the chair, smoothing down my blouse again. “She’s here to assist with whatever needs doing and to get a real sense of what the job’s like.”
I offer a small, slightly awkward wave to the room full of uniformed strangers. “Hi, everyone,” I say, keeping my tone as steady as I can, even though there’s a small flip in my stomach. “I’m Raelynn Carson, and I’m looking forward to working with you all.”
A few heads turn—nothing dramatic—just polite curiosity, maybe mild disinterest.
I give a quick smile and sink back into my seat, doing my best not to look like I’m analyzing every glance thrown my way.
But I got through it—no stumbling, awkward stammering, or spontaneous combustion.
I’ll take the win.
Rodriguez spends the next five minutes going over a few current cases and shift updates—suspected drug activity near the university, a string of break-ins in the downtown district, and a briefing on a recent domestic violence call that escalated fast. Her tone remains composed yet firm, and the room listens attentively.
Even the ones who look half asleep seem to take mental notes.
Once she finishes explaining everything and assigning officers to specific areas, she steps down from the podium.
She strides smoothly across the room toward my table, her boots barely making a sound against the scuffed tile.
Around us, officers begin rising from their seats, conversations picking back up as they filter out of the room to prepare for patrol.
The room is nearly empty within moments, except for me and the two officers still seated at the table behind mine.
Grumpy and his partner.
“Miss Carson,” Rodriguez starts, “you’ll be riding along with Officers Emilio Perez and Jacoby Kline today.”
I half-turn in my seat to face them and offer a polite smile. My eyes flick to the name tags clipped to their uniforms, putting names to their faces.
She nods once, then adds, “At the end of your shift, we’ll meet and go over your plan.” She turns and exits the room, leaving me in the increasingly awkward silence that follows.
Officer Kline is the first to break the silence. He leans forward slightly and extends a hand with an easy, warm smile. “Welcome aboard, Raelynn.”
I reach out and shake his hand. His grip is firm and steady, confident without trying to dominate. He gives a single shake, then casually tucks his hands back into the space between his chest and Kevlar vest, like it’s second nature.
Like Perez, he has opted for the short-sleeved uniform, revealing a few intricate geometric tattoos that wind down his arms. He looks to be in his late thirties, maybe early forties, and about the same height as Perez, with a broad, solid frame and sun-kissed skin that suggests years spent under Arizona’s unforgiving sun.
His short-cropped brown hair is peppered with gray, and faint crow’s feet frame his gray blue eyes.
There’s a rugged steadiness to him. The kind that comes from experience—not just surviving this job, but staying grounded through it.
I turn to offer my hand to Officer Perez, but he doesn’t take it. Instead, he stands, stiff and unreadable, and gives Kline a sidelong glance.
“Kline, can you grab our ride-along her observer vest?” he says, his tone flat but laced with annoyance.
Kline gives a quick nod and heads out of the room without hesitation, boots thudding softly against the floor.
I’m barely able to process the brush-off before Perez turns his gaze on me fully. He folds his arms across his chest, and I swear the temperature in the room drops a few degrees.
“If you haven’t figured it out yet,” he says, tone clipped, “I’m not thrilled about this arrangement.”
I blink and my mouth parts slightly, caught somewhere between surprise and irritation. “Excuse me?”
“I don’t like babysitting,” he adds, not even bothering to mask the disdain.
My eyes narrow, the bite in his tone flaring something sharp in my chest. “Well, don’t look at it that way,” I say, doing my best not to let the frustration slip too far into my voice.
“I’m not here for a joyride, Officer Perez.
I’m serious about what I’m doing.” I say his name like it leaves a bad taste in my mouth.
His brows lift slightly, as if he wasn’t expecting me to push back.
“I’m here because I give a damn about this job and the path I’m on,” I continue.
“And I’d appreciate not being treated like some kid tagging along for extra credit. ”
Perez doesn’t flinch, but his expression shifts slightly as he studies me, his eyes dark and unreadable.
“Then you should understand well enough that you’re not trained,” he says calmly, but firmly. “If Kline or I tell you to stay in the car, back off, or leave a scene, you do it. No debate.”
My jaw clenches. He’s already grating on every nerve I have. I’m not stupid. I’ve done ride-alongs before. I know how to keep myself out of the way, and I sure as hell don’t need to be treated like some clueless kid on a field trip.
Before I can fire back, Kline returns, holding a neon yellow vest in one hand.
The word “OBSERVER” is printed in bold, peeling black letters across the back.
The thing looks like it’s been through hell—frayed at the edges, faint stains along the shoulder seams, and the dingy thing had to be slipped on like a t-shirt because the straps had been tied together at the buckle.
No one cared enough to try to undo the hellish knot.
Kline holds it out with a sheepish grin.
“It’s seen better days, but it does the job. ”
I nod, take it from him with a soft sigh already dreading the scratchy material, and slip it over my head. The scent of sweat and something artificially floral itches my nostrils as it falls into place.
“All right, she’s ready—let’s go,” Perez says, his tone clipped as he turns on his heel and strides out of the roll call room without waiting for a response.
I quickly grab my bag and fall into step behind him and Officer Kline, trailing them down the hallway and out into the morning light.
It’s past 7 a.m. now, and the day is already warming up, the sunlight casting long shadows across the concrete as we head toward the gated lot reserved for police-issued vehicles.
The parking lot is quiet, nearly empty aside from a few crime scene vans parked off to the side and a few specialty units. Only three patrol cars remain; of those, just one is running—headlights glowing faintly against the pavement, engine humming low.
Kline heads straight for it, sliding into the driver’s seat with practiced ease, while Perez circles to the back of the cruiser. He opens the rear door and pulls out a folded wool blanket from the trunk. Without a word, he spreads it across the hard plastic bench seat in the back.
I blink, a little surprised by the gesture. I’d forgotten entirely that the backseat of a cruiser has those molded, unforgiving seats that weren’t built for comfort—and it hadn’t occurred to me until now that I’d be spending the ride-along in the back like an arrestee, not an intern.
“Thank you,” I say quietly as I climb in, easing myself down onto the thinly padded blanket. It doesn’t do much to soften the seat, but I appreciate the effort all the same.
Perez glances at me, the corner of his mouth twitching faintly. “No problem,” he mutters, then shuts the door behind me with a solid thunk.
He circles the car and slides into the passenger seat up front without another word. He then spins the MDT toward him, his fingers already tapping across the keyboard like he’s tuning me out completely as Kline pulls out of the parking lot.
I lean back against the seat, hands folded in my lap, and brace myself for whatever the next few hours might bring.