“Are you telling me that wasn’t locked?”
Xander reached out and patted his friend on the head. “That’s why I’m the big time superhero, and you’re the sidekick. Now grab the photos, Fallout Boy.”
Officer Tim White smiled graciously at Officer Lensherr as he stepped through the revolving doors of the Coral Beach Precinct, even waving a two-fingered salute as he started to peel out of the beige trench coat he’d worn into the office today. He had already regretted taking it off of the rack. The day had turned out to be more humid than any day in September had any right being, making all of his joints feel chaffed and scratchy under the suffocating fabric.
He was a tall African-American man, broad across the shoulders and looking as though he worked out at least some of the time. Muscles that were tightly coiled and honed to perfection ten years ago had begun to sag. What he had once referred to as his six-pack abs had since been downgraded to a small keg, but he still turned a head every once in a while and that was enough for him. His black hair was neatly trimmed close enough to his head that you could see that his hairline was beginning to recede. His complexion was dark and teeth bright white, so that when he smiled it could be seen clear across the room.
Officer Lensherr smiled back and waved courteously, then grabbed a handful of files from a mail cart as it passed by and started to sort through them as he headed back to his desk, not looking up at Tim again.
Tim smirked a little, laid his jacket over the wall of his office (which was really nothing more than a cubicle) and then leaned back in his chair. He’d been getting a lot of responses like the one Lensherr just gave him lately. Mostly because he wasn’t Officer Tim White anymore... now he was Agent Tim White, a fact he had to remind himself of at least twice a day. He had received the honor less than two days after apprehending Adam Genblade, the man responsible for the Coral Beach Massacre. For ten years he had been the only African-American on the force here in Coral Beach. Even though none of them had ever given him a hard time or so much as told an inappropriate limerick, he still felt a smug feeling of satisfaction at being the first one to ever be promoted out of the department.
Leaning back with his hands behind his head, he stared out the open window and watched a few cars go by, puffing air in and out of his mouth. After a moment he turned back toward his cubicle. For the first time in a decade, there was nothing on the walls but unused tacks and his phone. Usually it was adorned with different cases or elements of cases, mug shots or evidence photos. The north wall was usually reserved for ongoing cases, mostly missing children and robberies. Now the wall was empty and all of the cases had been reassigned to other officers. That redistribution of casework had made him the source of a few unhappy stares in the past few days, but most people had been more than happy to pick up the slack.
Now, for the first time in his career, he had nothing to do. It would be days or more before he was reassigned, and he felt boredom creeping over the back of his skull as he continued to stare at the gray-flecked wall of his cubicle.
A steady squeaking noise that had been present ever since he came through the front door became louder all of a sudden and he turned to see Peter coming around the corner, pushing his mail cart along at a brisk pace.
Tim moved to get up and almost fell off his chair. He grabbed his desk with both hands and pulled himself forward, the chair steadying itself back on four legs. His fourth grade teacher had always said that would happen if he kept leaning on his chair long enough, that it was Murphy’s Law. He sighed with relief for a moment, wishing that he’d listened, but resigning himself to the fact that it had taken her over thirty years to prove her point, so perhaps the odds were still in his favor.
He got up successfully the second time, turning toward the cart just as it squeaked past. “Anything for me?” he asked, slyly glancing over the contents on the cart and shooting Pete that big smile of his again.
Pete’s expression remained vacant as he started to thumb through a few of the yellow and orange envelopes, finally turning to Tim. “Nope,” he said simply, then started to wheel past again, the left wheel proceeding with its steady shriek.
Tim laid his hand upon the cart to stop it, something on it catching his attention. “Hold on,” he said as he reached out and grabbed the third yellow folder from the end and pulled it out. It had the word ‘sensitive’ stamped across the front of it, which was what had gotten his attention as Pete was flipping through. He checked the ledger at the bottom of the file, making sure that it wasn’t assigned to anyone in particular yet, then sat on the corner of his desk and flipped the file open as Pete continued to wheel past.
The first page of the file, held down by a paperclip with rust flecks on it, was a page that had been printed off of the old printer in the back and had left ink splotches all over it. It was the generic page that was printed for almost every case that came through, with little check-boxes the initial officer on the scene had to fill out with the nature of the case, victim name and brief summary.
