《The Underbelly》


 Prologue

    Wyatt crouched quickly behind the park bench, gunfire all around, the sounds of it echoing off nearby buildings like fireworks in a canyon. His hands were steady, though, and he reloaded swiftly, tossing the empty magazine aside. If he lived, he''d pick them up later.


    More pops rattled off. These were distant, though. Shouts from the other officers calling out orders and positions. There was too much yelling over his own radio. He could hear crying...


    A baby''s crying.


    From the left. He turned around, and immediately he felt something rush over his head, shooting his hat off, the sound of it following soon after. More pops, louder now. Against the bench this time. The bench was saving his life.


    A baby''s crying, the mother holding it, clutching it to her.


    Bodies around them both.


    I''m pinned, he thought.The bench. My feet are exposed.


    He''s not shooting at my feet. Can''t see them? Isn''t looking for them?


    Might as well...


    He dropped low and peaked out. There was a face behind a bush, looking in his general direction, gun in hand... but not noticing straight away Wyatt''s face peering out from between the bench''s legs. By the time he did, Wyatt had his gun out. When he fired, it was awkward, and the gun immediately kicked back and almost hit him in the face. He regained the grip and aimed again, only the body of whoever was shooting at him was slumped lifelessly over the bush.


    Two more, firing at other officers from behind some jungle gym contraption. He needed four shots to bring them both down, writhing in pain, guns out of reach as their hands covered their wounds. Not dead, though.


    Wyatt looked over and saw Jamille, an undercover operative who was hiding behind a tree. "They''re down," he yelled. "Get their guns."


    Jamille, wide-eyed and nervously cradling his own gun, glanced out apprehensively, before he saw the two gangsters on the ground. "Nice shooting, Milter," he said, before looking around to see if there was another danger. Wyatt also glanced around. The lady and the child were still there, crying.


    More bodies around them this time.


    No gangsters nearby, though.


    Five shots. Five left. He pulled out another magazine, had it ready.


    "Go, I''ll cover you," Wyatt yelled. Jamille nodded, and after taking one last apprehensive look, darted across the short distance of the park towards the jungle gym from the tree he was using for protection. Sparkle from a distance, and the ground poofed up around him, and then the noise of more pops. Wyatt shot three times at the light, and saw a body slump down. Jamille was at the side of the two gangsters, wrapping plasticuffs on them and collecting their rifles.


    Two shots left. "Jamille," he called out. "Throw me one of those and some ammunition."


    Jamille looked at him with a smile. "You''ve shot these before?"


    "No, but I''m almost out."


    He pocketed the extra magazine and holstered his gun, just in time to see the assault rifle land in a patch of grass near him, with some magazines soon littered around it. He got up to go get it and instantly the bench splintered, and shots exploded.


    He dove back down.


    Someone I didn''t see?


    The shots kept coming. He pulled out the revolver again and waited for a pause. "Jamille?" he yelled.


    He couldn''t hear a response through the gunfire, which wasn''t letting up, thundering as though the park itself was being ripped apart. Two shots wouldn''t be enough. He reholstered the gun, and crawled along behind the bench until he could see the rifle. The tree that Jamille was behind was about ten yards away.


    Dive, somersault, grab the rifle, roll to feet, sprint for the tree.


    No word from Jamille. When the gunfire stopped, he pounced. Getting ahold of the rifle made his roll awkward, and he found himself on his knees, trying to push himself up to his feet, when the ground started to poof up around him, and then more gunfire. He bounded over the ground towards the tree and dove again to get behind it. In the river that ran through the park, about twenty yards behind him, there were splashes. He hadn''t felt the bullets as they went by.


    Lucky...


    The shooting was coming from the hill, closer to the street. The shooter had the high ground on him. Again, why he was safe behind the bench. The gunfire was still coming, though. Wyatt felt the shots all around him, could almost feel them raining against the far side of the tree.


    "Jamille!?" he yelled. Still no answer.


    It was unusually bright out, so much so that the notches on the tree caught his eye immediately. Somebody had carved them in, for climbing. He looked up. It was only spring but the branches were full of leaves, and only ten feet up or so the trunk split.


    Over in the sand, the mother was cradling her baby, still screaming.


    More bodies around her. Where were they coming from?


    "Get behind the slide!" he yelled at the mother, but she probably didn''t hear him. He could barely make out his own voice through the gunfire.This tale has been unlawfully lifted from Royal Road. If you spot it on Amazon, please report it.


    The rifle had a strap, so he slung it over his shoulder and began to climb up the trunk. Soon, he was up high enough that the bullets were hitting the trunk of the tree below his feet. He took hold of the crotch between the two branches and hoisted himself up. The tree had branches that swooped low, and it was hard to see through all the leaves. He grabbed the rifle and swung it around front, gripping and aiming.


    It''ll have a stronger recoil, he told himself as he aimed towards where the shots had come from.


    A wind kicked up and moved some of the branches out of the way. Two of the gangsters were there on the hill. One was still firing at the base of the tree, and the other was moving to a better position. He steadied himself and aimed. Short, controlled bursts, he reminded himself.


    He squeezed the trigger, and shot off seven rounds before he even realized it, and the gun almost jumped out of his hands, turning off to the side. He lost his grip, but it was still strapped to him. When he looked back, he couldn''t see anything straight away... until the wind caught the branches again, and then he saw the one who had been shooting, now on the ground, twitching.


    The other yelled out something, before grabbing his gun, and aiming in Wyatt''s general direction, although again, not looking up, not seeing him amongst the branches. The wind let up and the leaf coverage settled, and Wyatt was hidden again. He got control of the gun, brought it around front and lifted it up to aim, readying his body to absorb the kick properly. He closed one eye and tilted his head so that he was looking straight down the barrel, right through the sight.


    The wind picked up again. The gangster was pointing his gun frantically in every direction, but didn''t look up until it was too late. Wyatt only needed to squeeze off two rounds, and the gangster fell out of view.


    Finally, Wyatt looked down, over at the jungle gym, and saw Jamille lying there, coughing up blood and breathing heavily, his hand covering a bloody mess on his belly.


    "Jamille," he yelled. "Hold on."


    He grabbed his radio. "Officer down. Get somebody to the center of the park, at the jungle gym. Officer down. He''s not in uniform."


    "Hey tree boy," somebody called out, back in the direction of where he''d seen the woman and the child before. He looked over, and saw two more gangsters there. One was behind the woman, his arm around her neck, and her eyes were wide with fear. The other was cradling the kid, and had his gun pointed at its head.


    They were looking straight at him. His heart sunk, and the soles of his feet shivered.


    "No..." she was sobbing.


    "Get down here," the one holding the kid said. He was wearing sunglasses and had a toothy grin.


    "Move it!" yelled the one holding the woman. From the way he grimaced, he was a bit more rattled. "Drop the rifle, leave it strapped."


    "Ok ok..." Wyatt said, bringing his leg over so that he could crawl down the notches. He took his time. Maybe he could get them unawares, and then use the rifle to-


    "Hold the rifle by the strap," the grimacing one yelled. "Pick up those magazines and bring them here."


    Wyatt sighed. There was still gunfire, still some yelling from police officers, and even the wailing of sirens from other cars, but they were distant. Somehow, Wyatt knew that other than him, the two gangsters and the lady and her child, they were the only ones in that part of the park. Even the bodies...


    ...the bodies were gone.


    He looked over at Jamille, who was still sputtering blood, still lying there, but apparently out of view. He was holding the other rifle in his hands, though. The two gangsters who were there with him were lying on the ground, motionless but still breathing.


    Wyatt walked over slowly to the magazines that Jamille had thrown him earlier that he didn''t have time to pick up. Holding the rifle by the strap in one hand, and clutching the ammunition awkwardly in the other, he advanced towards the two gangsters, standing there in the middle of the sand, not relenting their grip on either the mother or her child.


    But where did the other bodies go?


    "For a small fucker you sure were dangerous," the gangster holding the kid said. "How many did you take out? Four?"


    "Five, I think," Wyatt said. When he reached the sand, he stopped, waiting further instructions.


    "Yeah, that''s far enough. Toss them here." The gangster gestured with his gun. "I ought to thank you. One of the ones you took out, over on the hill, I''d been meaning to do myself, but you know how it is..."


    Wyatt tossed over the ammunition, and then swung over the rifle by its strap.


    Two shots left.


    "I guess I''ll kill you quick." He took aim at Wyatt as the other one, the one holding the woman, pushed her aside and slapped her hard, sending her to the ground.


    "No..." she said. "Please let me-"


    Gunfire ripped through the sky from the jungle gym. The gangster holding the baby turned in the direction of the sound, and the other grabbed ahold of his gun. Wyatt quickly unholstered his gun and took two shots, and was about to try to reload when he saw both slump to the ground, each of their faces a bloody mess.


    "Stevie!" the woman yelled, running over to the child, who was being held awkwardly by the dead gangster''s arm.


    Wyatt heard something unintelligible from the jungle gym. He turned around and rushed over. Jamille was lying there, the rifle in his hand. "Did it work...?" he asked, spitting more blood out. The two gangsters, the ones who''d been handcuffed... weren''t there.


    "Yeah man," Wyatt said. "Hold still." He adjusted Jamille so that he could lie properly against the side of the jungle gym, and he examined the wound. He cleaned away the blood from it as best he could, ripping off a portion of Jamille''s sleeve.


    Suddenly he heard the sound of voices from behind. His gun was empty, but maybe they didn''t know that. He jumped up and turned around... and saw three uniforms and a couple of paramedics.


    "Whoa tiger, it''s the good guys," one of them said. It was Kent, standing there, his hand up protectively, as if to shield his perfect mustache.


    "Sorry, sorry," Wyatt said, before pointing to Jamille. "Take care of him."


    The paramedics rushed quickly to him, and Wyatt walked away, looking back at the slide. The child was back on it, riding down it happily, and the woman was coming towards him, flashing a beautiful, brilliant smile at him. He only noticed now that she was taller than he was.


    "How many did you get, Wyatt?" Kent asked from behind him.


    "Seven, I think," Wyatt said.


    "Really? I don''t see seven bodies here..."


    "Carrots are better for your eyesight than doughnuts, Kent," Wyatt said, walking towards the woman.


    "Oh SNAP," one of the officers said, and everybody laughed at Kent, Jamille included.


    The ground between Wyatt and the woman closed quickly.


    "I can''t believe it, you''re a miracle worker," she said, her hands coming up to caress his face. She was really beautiful, close up. She crouched over a bit and leaned in close to kiss him fully on the mouth, and the cops behind him cheered. "Attaboy, Wyatt." He inhaled her perfume, and it was intoxicating. "I don''t know how I can ever repay you for saving us."


    "Just don''t pinch me," he smiled.


    "Why?" she said, her fingers going out towards his forearm.


    "NO!" he yelled, but it was too late, and the bright sunny park was replaced by the darkness of his bedroom.

 Chapter 1

    "Are you up already?" Tanya asked when she came out of the bedroom and seeing Wyatt, hunched over the newspaper. He couldn''t get back to sleep, so he went down and listened to the early news. When he heard the story about another archer attack, he checked the internet, and sure enough, there was a story on a local news feed about how the Port City rapist might have finally been caught, complete with a picture of a man with arrows piercing his hands, pinning him to a wooden drop box outside PCFM station. The guy had been brought in front of the radio station, rather than with the police, and the news people there did their part, calling it in, but not before taking some photos and drawing their own conclusions, based upon how well the face matched the description the police had given out earlier. In the years since the city had drastically expanded its police force, sensational crime stories were rare opportunities, and the potential discovery of the identity of a serial rapist was big news, even if nothing was yet proven.


    The Port City Crier had been at the doorstep when he went to look, but this attack wasn''t in there. The cover was all about the upcoming anniversary of the Hyde Park Massacre. Must have happened after the print deadline.


    The department hadn''t bothered to call him in. That could have meant that they weren''t in a rush to investigate the attack on the rapist. Or, it could have meant that they had half the squad scouring the city looking for a lunatic with a bow. In either case, they were perfectly content to leave Wyatt Milter at home, eating his toast, contemplating Hyde Park and archery.


    "Wyatt?" Tanya called again.


    "I''m fine," he said through a mouthful. "There''s some coffee made if you want some."


    "Aw, thanks, mein bruder," Tanya said in her joking German accent that she saved for Wyatt''s quieter moments. She was already dressed for work, and her high heels clicked off the kitchen floor as she moved quickly to the coffee pot and mug that he''d left out for her. After a generous pour, sniff and sip, she sighed and announced, "Ahhhh, das ist goot. Danke."


    "No problem," he smiled, staring at the black-and-white file photos that the newspaper had drummed up. Nothing violent, unlike what they''d printed the days immediately after the massacre. The headline read "Not Forgotten" in the standard failed attempt at subtlety the Crier was well-known for. Tomorrow it would have something alarming about the rapist''s body -- the Crier''s editorial staff had their minds made up about what to think about the archer, and had been reliably alarmist that a madman might be out there picking off random people, while writing in an almost admiring detail about the attacks themselves. But for today, the Crier''s gift to the readership was hefty praise for Mayor John Ramsay and his fine leadership that he showed in the aftermath of Hyde Park, next to pictures of grief-stricken people standing outside of police tape, looking in at what was the horror that the Crier was all too happy to show direct snaps of almost a year ago.


    "You''re qui- Oh..." Tanya said, coming around to the side of the table. "The ceremony?"


    "Yeah," he said.


    "Are you going to be out there for it? I read there was supposed to be a big commemoration that day..."


    "Yeah, I know. All the beat guys will be there. I''ve been told they want me to work the office to cover the shortage."


    "Oh Wyatt..." Tanya said, her arm coming across to rub him on the shoulder. "I''m sorry."Support the creativity of authors by visiting the original site for this novel and more.


    "Hey, it''s overtime," Wyatt shrugged, smiling. "I could use it. You don''t want me living here forever, do you?"


    "I don''t mind," Tanya said. "I like having you here. It makes me feel safe."


    Wyatt snorted. She had three inches and twenty pounds on him, and none of it fat, neither. When he looked over at her with a sarcastic squint and pursed lips, she laughed. "I''m serious. When I talk to my students about you, I tell them you''re a cop, and they''re so interested. They want to know if you''ve fired a gun, if you''ve ever run down a crook, if you''ve..."


    "And what do they say when you tell them I''m pretty much just a file clerk and coffeeboy?"


    "I don''t," she said, pointing at him. "I tell them you''re in training and someday soon you''re going to save somebody and be on the cover of all the city newspapers."


    Wyatt smiled and shook his head. "You''re such a bullshitter."


    "Well, you will. Although it''d help if you got a full night''s sleep, though."


    "Yeah..." he said.


    "Bad dreams again?" Tanya asked.


    Wyatt tilted his head, as if letting the question bounce off him. "I just couldn''t sleep. When I came down I heard on the radio that the archer had struck again, and I''ve been wired ever since."


    "Again? What did that nutjob do now?" Tanya asked.


    "Well, he might have gotten the Port City Rapist," Wyatt said.


    "Oh," she laughed. "Well, I guess that''s alright, then. Stuck full of arrows like the other ones?"


    "Sort of," he said. "Fewer this time, it seems. The photo online showed one in his thigh, and one in each of his hands, pinning him to a dropbox of some kind."


    "That''s gruesome," Tanya said, wincing. "How could he have done that? Was the guy stealing the drop box?"


    Wyatt shrugged. "How should I know?"


    "Well, maybe it''s some sort of clue. You should go in there early and find out. Maybe if you did that they''d put you on the case. Come on, mein bruder. Show a little initiative."


    Wyatt paused for a second. He thought about the scrapbook in his desk, and how he''d stuffed it with extra information from the files he''d gotten on the archer when the others in the office weren''t paying attention, and he realized that it did have some theories on who it could be and why he was doing things the way he was, theories that weren''t being talked about around the station as far as he could tell. But nobody in his precinct had ever handled any of the archer''s attacks so far, so it would make sense that nobody would bother making any theories around the station. He also knew that in all the time he''d worked in the department, nobody had ever asked anything of him other than to deliver reports and get coffee. Before, whenever he went to target practice, the officer that signed people in was always surprised to see him, and it was a sort of surprise tinted with something between amusement and disdain that made it harder and harder for him to go back to practice, until finally he stopped going. Nobody noticed. The thought of going to the captain with his ideas, when his precinct had handled none of the calls so far, gave Wyatt the feeling he''d be getting that same look if he made any suggestions. Surprise, amusement, disdain.


    "I don''t know," he said. "I don''t think they''ll need me."


    "You never know," she said, smiling. "They might this time..."


    Wyatt smiled and shook his head quickly. "Nah. I''ll leave the pros to it."


    Tanya smiled, and then shrugged. "Ok... Say, I''m going to be late, I''d better go." She stood up, sucked in her gut and twisted her waist. "How do I look?"


    "Like my sister," he said. "How am I supposed to answer that question?"


    She slapped him on the shoulder and ran for the door.


    Wyatt turned back to his toast, and saw that there were only crumbs left. He decided it would be a good idea to try to get a longer nap before heading in for the afternoon and evening shift, and he picked himself up and wandered over to the living room sofa, where he kicked up his feet and lay down, and closed his eyes.


    But he couldn''t sleep.

 Chapter 2

    Four policemen in riot gear were rushing out the door when Wyatt arrived at the department, and they nearly bowled him over. "Move it Milter," one of them said. It was Kent, who gave him a slight shove and a sneer, before adjusting the vest over his girth.


    "Sorry Steven," Wyatt said, leaning against the railing beside the door. Kent didn''t respond. He watched them head towards a small van that was pulling up outside the front of the department, one of the many new ones that had been outfitted in the initiative since Hyde Park. The driver himself had slightly lighter gear on, and was talking into the radio. He didn''t seem terribly hurried. It must have been one of the usual university protests, with a few dozen guys there already. That was standard operating procedure these days -- send a half-dozen patrol cars, if they look like they''re ready to break up but they''re taking their time about it, send a van with guys in riot gear just to hurry things along. If there was even a hint of trouble they''d be sending out more than just these four.


    Captain Nichols was talking with Dr. McMurry at the front of the office. When he got inside, the Captain''s face lit up. "Milter, good to see you... coffee, two creams, two sugars, and meet me in the office. Don''t bother taking off your jacket."


    "Yes sir," Wyatt said. His heart sank when he saw the doctor, standing there in her business attire and her hair done up. Psych evaluations were up today, and he''d totally forgotten. He dreaded the psych evaluations -- ever since he''d confessed to McMurry about dreaming of Hyde Park, it was the only thing she ever brought up anymore. The evals were done every month now (up from once every three months a year ago), and a month was long enough to have had three or four of those dreams, which meant that he could have developed schizophrenia and they wouldn''t have time to talk about it. He tried lying about the dreams once, but he was a terrible liar, and the subject was unavoidable. In training, they''d had a few demonstrations of the lie detector, and he''d been brought up as the guinea pig. Kent, who was in the same class as him and knew a few embarrassing things, asked Wyatt some pretty shameful questions, and Wyatt lied badly through all of them. No, I''m not still a virgin. No, I don''t live with my sister. Yes, I passed my physical on the first go-round. The needle was off the charts, like a seismograph during an earthquake.


    He headed over to the coffee machine beside the secretary, and began pouring Nichols''s coffee exactly how he liked it. He''d done it so many times he was surprised Nichols constantly reminded him about the two creams and sugars. As he broke open the first cream, he already knew how the day would pan out. Bring Nichols his coffee, wait in the office for the files that needed to be brought to DA, wait at the DA''s office in order for different files to be brought back to the department, wait around at his desk if there were any phone calls, get called into the back room for the psych eval with McMurry, wait around for any more phone calls, go home, watch the late night talk shows and eat an omelette.


    Maybe dream about being an actual cop.


    "Milter, move it," Nichols said before slamming a door behind him, and Wyatt hurried up, but not before busting the second cream so that it spilled all over the counter.


    "Shit," he said, looking over at the secretary apologetically.


    She looked up, looked at the mess, and rolled her eyes before going back to her Sudoku.


    "I''ll clean that up when I get back," he said.


    If she heard him, she didn''t acknowledge it.


    Wyatt cradled the mug with both hands as he made his way carefully across the office. Kent wasn''t there at his usual spot, which meant that he could take a direct route without fear of being tripped. As he walked by, the others were on their phones, talking in that robotic tone of voice that enough years at the desk can give you.


    "-trying to tell you ma''am, we don''t have ladders. The fire department can better help you with that. I can put you through. Just a-"


    "-a squad car in the neighbourhood, we''ll have them drive by. If the music''s too loud, they''ll-"


    "-can come in and file a report, that''s the best thing. We don''t recommend buying a gun-"


    "-more than twenty people, then it''s standard operating procedure to have somebody come in and check it out. It''s just a precaution, and if the demonstration is peaceful, there shouldn''t be-"


    He grinned, a little sardonically. There were about 20 conversations they would have over and over again, and it got so that even though they were provided with scripts for each of them, he never needed to reference them.


    He held the mug carefully as he slowly opened Nichols'' door. Milter, took you long enough, Wyatt thought. Take that to the DA pronto. Bring it back to the front.If you discover this tale on Amazon, be aware that it has been unlawfully taken from Royal Road. Please report it.


    "Milter, took you long enough," Nichols said, not even looking up from his computer as he held out his hand to receive the cup. He nodded his head towards the front of the desk. "There. Take that to the DA pronto."


    "Yes captain," Wyatt said, handing over the coffee and looking down at the file. It was partially opened, and there were photographs inside that were spilling out. Wyatt took a brief glance at the top-most one, and almost dropped the coffee.


    It was a bloodied arrow shaft lying on the pavement.


    "Milter, careful, Jesus." Nichols reached out with his other hand to steady the cup.


    "Sorry captain," Wyatt said. His mind was racing. The attack... it happened at PCFM radio station, which was on... somewhere on Moore Boulevard, but since Moore cut through five different precincts in the city, it hadn''t occurred to him the night before to even consider that it would be in theirs. Moore and... Well, it didn''t matter. Somebody from their precinct had answered the call, taken photos, gotten interviews... His scrapbook was filled with newspaper clippings, random gossip around the office, and some speculating on his part, but this was his first chance to see a file on it. Immediately his mind flashed to the photocopier out back, near the rear exit to the squad cars. Nobody''s ever there.


    "These need to go right away?" Wyatt asked quickly.


    "What did I say, Milter?" Nichols asked.


    "Yes, Captain," Wyatt said. "Should I take one of the squad cars around back?" It had been years since he''d actually been behind the wheel of one, but the anxiety of driving again was totally overshadowed by the need to get near a photocopier.


    "The DA''s office is four blocks away, Milter. We''ve got a demonstration up near PCU. We need those squad cars freed up."


    "Right..." Wyatt sighed, turning towards the door, file in hand.


    "Uh, are you forgetting something?" the Captain asked.


    "Sir?" Wyatt said, turning around.


    The Captain pointed at an almost-empty cup from earlier. "Bring it back to the front."


    "Right, sorry sir," Wyatt said. He tucked the file under his arm and grabbed the cup. The file almost slipped out of his hand, and he brought the other around to secure it, splashing a tiny bit of old coffee on the manilla folder. He held them both precariously for a second, before going over to the wall to steady them. It''s a wonder we trust you with a phone.


    "Christ, Milter," the Captain said. "It''s a wonder we trust you with a-"


    "Sorry sir," Wyatt said, tucking the file tightly under his armpit to open the door. "I''ll get this out straight away."


    "You want me to what?" the teenage clerk asked, his loose lips and tiny eyes expressing exasperation.


    "Listen," Wyatt said, pointing at his badge as he got up on his tiptoes, "Our office copier is down and the district attorney needs this right now."


    "Alright..." the clerk said.


    "But whatever you do, don''t fold the corners on the stapled sheets or anything like that."


    "Alright..." the clerk said, one of his eyebrows tilting up.


    "And you can''t look at anything inside. This is confidential."


    "But if we can''t look at anything, how can we know what to photocopy?"


    "Just... do your best. Keep the photos faced away from you, and if you see text, uh... don''t read it. Just put the lid down fast."


    "Alright..." the clerk said, turning to go.


    "And I need this done in the next five minutes. They''re expecting me."


    "Alright, rush jobs are extr-" the clerk began, and Wyatt cleared his throat, pointing at his badge. The clerk pursed his lips. "But you said the district attorney, right? That''s like, City Hall? They have an account with us. It won''t cost you anything."


    Wyatt coughed quickly. "No, no, I don''t want you to charge them for this."


    "You''re going to pay?"


    Wyatt noticed that the kid''s mouth hadn''t closed since he got there. "Yeah, I''m going to take care of it."


    "Alright... well, rush jobs are extra," the clerk said.


    "Can''t you make an exception for the city''s finest?"


    "Don''t you guys have, like, the biggest budget in the city?" the boy said, pointing his nose at Wyatt''s badge.


    "Well... Look, if we had such a big budget, don''t you think I''d be driving there instead of walking it?"


    The clerk looked at him for a second, and then shook his head. "Whatever... I''ll be back in a second."


    Wyatt smiled, and folded his hands behind his back, and started to whistle. He watched as the clerk spoke to the teenaged girl who was working the machine. She looked over in his direction as the boy relayed the instructions, and Wyatt was able to lipread her saying "He''s a cop?" with an expression of disbelief to the clerk. The clerk shrugged his shoulders.


    "Uh, excuse me?" Wyatt called out. "The city waits..."


    "Yes sir," they both said, as if he were their teacher.

 Chapter 3

    Inside City Hall, Wyatt studied the high ceilings topping the corridors outside the District Attorney''s office. The entire building had just finished renovations, and it showed -- whereas before everything had been sterile concrete and fluorescent lights, now everything was deep-coloured wood, soft lamps, and maroon carpeting. Security had stepped up as well. Metal detectors, multiple badge checks, and there was even a new voice print identification system that he needed to register for on the spot, after they''d called his department to ensure his business there. His voice had cracked like he was back in the eighth grade -- that earned him the familiar annoyed look -- as they ran the jacket through the X-Ray scanner, as he prayed they didn''t look too closely at the bulge in his right pocket.


    The halls were nice. They''d even put fancy, ornate benches in the middle of them so people could sit and wait outside the offices, if need be. Wyatt was there now, fiddling with the folder, shifting uncomfortably atop the plush cushion. He thought about the photocopies in his pocket and realized that he hadn''t asked for colour prints, and wondered if that meant he was going to be missing out on any information. Of course, he couldn''t pull them out now, but if nobody was looking, he could take a peek into the folder in his hands...


    "-think you''ve not thought this through, Mr. Adams," came a woman''s voice from down the corridor. Wyatt looked up, and saw that the Assistant DA was walking quickly and awkwardly in her heels to keep up with the towering figure of Mr. Gerald Adams, her boss. "We still don''t have enough information on the victims. You heard the reports. He''s the spitting image of-"


    "He''s the spitting image of a citizen of Port City, Petra," Mr. Adams said. "I won''t have somebody running around at night and shooting arrows at the people of this city."


    Wyatt quickly came to attention. The archer. He wanted to break out his pen and start taking notes in case they said something new, but there was no subtle way to do that now.


    "But here''s the thing," Petra said as they reached the door, and Adams fished through his pocket for his keys. "The first two, Hollis and Wendell, we have files on them. This new guy, he just might be the Port City Rapi-"


    "''Might'' being the operative word, Petra," Adams said, pulling the keys from his pocket and gesturing with them. "We don''t have all the facts here on the rapist. And if we don''t have all the facts, how can we expect that this nutcase does? Don''t be silly." Adams paused, and looked over at Wyatt, who''d stood up quietly and removed his hat, tucking it under his right arm, concealing the bulge in his right jacket pocket.


    "Yes?" Adams said. "Oh, you, right. Come in." He rushed in, leaving Petra to hold the door open for them.


    Petra nodded towards him with a blank expression. Wyatt was caught by her glare briefly, and he saw her eyes go towards his hat, which he was holding tightly. Wyatt shifted uncomfortably and offered up the file. She took it, looked him in the eyes and said in a flat voice "Wait right here, will you?" She turned and left him at the door, as she went inside.


    "Uh, sure." Wyatt swallowed hard. She was certainly pretty, in an almost 1950s sort of a way, with her slim figure and hair tied back, but her face was hard, and the eyes had something in them that he couldn''t quite figure out. Not dead, exactly, but a sort of drawing power to them, as if they made the rest of the room go out of focus. Standing there, holding the door and watching as she followed Adams deeper into the office, he tried to imagine her smiling, and could not. He could see her mouth make the necessary shape, but he couldn''t envision any change in her eyes.Taken from Royal Road, this narrative should be reported if found on Amazon.


    "At the very least let me look into it," he heard her say. "I could just get a detective and we could ask some questions, maybe work something out, see if there''s something emerg-"


    "All I''m interested in is the evidence, Petra," the shadowy figure of Adams said from behind his desk. "Hey officer, thanks very much, you''re not needed."


    Disappointed, Wyatt nodded and was about to close the door.


    "Wait just a sec," Petra called after him. She turned back to Adams. "Let me have a couple of detectives, please. I''m just as interested in getting the evidence as you are."


    "Sure you are," Adams said darkly. "You''re more interested in investigating the victims than you are the perp. No. Our resources are stretched to the limit right now, and I can''t indulge you, not this time. You''ve got your hands full investigating gang activity in the North end of the city, right? The Kouzens? That was a project you wanted, right?"


    "Yes, but-"


    Adams cut her off. "Remember that task force we help Ramsay set up on the archer? Well, his assistant is running it and they''re not interested in our ideas. See this file?" Adams picked up the folder Wyatt had brought in. "It''s going straight to them. We''re to not even look at it until they''re done. Clay''s even picking it up himself."


    Petra sighed, and stared at the floor.


    "Now do whatever you have to do with that officer and help me get ready for tomorrow," Adams said curtly.


    "Alright..." Petra said, before walking over to her own desk, picking up a folder, and quickly making her way back to the door. Wyatt straightened up, as he studied her eyes. If she was disappointed, she was good at hiding it. She looked the same as she always did.


    When she came up to him, she held out the new file. Wyatt''s left hand was still holding the hat to his side, as his right went to accept the file, but she withdrew it a little.


    She paused, staring at him dead on, without blinking. "This is for your Captain. It''s very important."


    Wyatt nodded. "I understand." He immediately felt uncomfortable. By all accounts Petra was an excellent Assistant DA, and in some of the more sensationalized Port City Crier articles about the courtroom they loved mentioning the fact that she handled Adams''s cross examinations for him, and they never missed a chance to praise her ability. What was even more well-known amongst the police officers was her reputation for being very good in the interrogation room, and in that moment in front of her, under her calm glare, he could instantly sense it. All he wanted to do was get out of there.


    "I''d appreciate it if you held it carefully," she said, "with both hands."


    Wyatt inhaled nervously, and quickly put his hat on, turning his body slightly to conceal the bulge. He held out his hands to take the file, and it was all he could do to keep them from shaking as he saw her eyes go to his left side. Her gaze narrowed briefly, before meeting his again. When she handed him the file, the expression was as dead as ever.


    "Thank you," she said.


    "You''re welcome," Wyatt answered quickly. He stepped back into the corridor as briskly as he could, letting the door close behind him, and he didn''t stop until he was out in the fresh air again, breathing heavily. He checked his side pocket, and it was still zipped up, and he sighed in relief. He took that moment to look down at the file in his hands. Standing there in the middle of the busy sidewalk, shoulders all around his face, he was tempted to have a peek inside, but he swallowed back the urge. He''d taken his risk today. Quit while you''re ahead, he thought. Thinking of the copies in his pocket, he even managed a smile.

 Chapter 4

    Dr. McMurry tapped her pencil against the desk and bit the corner of her lip as she stared at Wyatt''s file. He''d watched the psych evaluations that happened to cops on television, and he wished it were like that in his department. Maybe it was like that in New York, or Chicago, or whatever other metropolitan cities out there had a large force, but for whatever reason, when Port City had decided to enlarge its police through the Hyde Park Initiative, they''d focused more on the obvious changes, the ones the public could see... more cops, more guns, more cars, even extra stations. Wyatt had no illusions about his role -- if the force hadn''t been scaled up so much, he''d probably never have graduated from the academy. Still, the changes had all the signs of being permanent, and the Mayor''s approval rating was at an all-time high.


    Some less-visible problems remained, though. The DA and the Justice Department hadn''t enlarged its staff to account for the extra cases being brought before it, for instance. Despite the drastic increase in numbers, there was still little headway being made about the gang troubles in the north end of the city.


    And with three times the number of cops to go through in one third the time, psych evaluations had become short, to the point, and for Wyatt, brutal.


    "Wyatt Milter... Anything new to talk about since last time?" she finally asked, putting down the file and turning towards him, her free hand bringing her glasses down to the tip of her nose so she could stare at him over the top of the rims.


    "Nope," Wyatt said.


    "The captain says you''re the same as you always were," she said.


    "Uh... thanks?" Wyatt said.


    "Do you see that as a compliment?" she asked.


    "I don''t know..." Wyatt said, shifting uncomfortably in his chair. He was looking forward to getting back to his desk. It was close to six o''clock, much of the staff including the captain would have gone home by now, and most of the rest would be out on the night patrols around the city. That meant fewer phone calls for him to deal with and a lot of quiet time at the desk, to look at the photocopies and his scrapbook, to see what new he could find out.


    "What are your aspirations for the force, Wyatt?"


    "I just want to help out however I can," Wyatt said, scratching his cheek. It was the answer he always gave.


    "Really?" she asked, leaning back and crossing her arms. Wyatt winced. He knew what was coming next. "Any more dreams lately?"


    Wyatt sighed. "I can''t remember."


    "Wyatt..." she said deliberately.


    "I might have? I don''t know. Maybe sometime earlier this month."


    "Can you remember it?" she asked.


    "I guess..."


    "In Hyde Park again?" she asked.


    "Yeah, I guess it would have been..." he said.


    "How many gangsters were there?" she asked.This story has been unlawfully obtained without the author''s consent. Report any appearances on Amazon.


    "Seven, I think. I think I got seven of them."


    "And who did you rescue?" she asked.


    "A mother and her child, this time. And officer Jamille."


    "Wyatt, it''s been almost a year since the Hyde Park incident." The doctor looked back at the notes. "So far, every time I''ve seen you since then, you''ve had the dream. Looking at my notes here, I''ve noticed that the dream has actually progressed. It''s gone from just being there, to arresting a couple of the gang members, to rescuing people, and finally to killing gang members."


    "They''re just dreams, Doctor," Wyatt said.


    "It''s not the dreams themselves, Wyatt," the doctor said. "It''s what they symbolize. I look at your report and I see somebody who''s rushing around, having difficulties fulfilling basic job requirements, and who has fantasies about being some sort of action hero. Wyatt, this is not what your job is about. Do you understand your role here?"


    "I know that''s not what it''s about," Wyatt snapped.


    "Excuse me?" the doctor asked.


    Wyatt bit his lip for a second, before answering harshly. Enough was enough. "I know what it means to be a cop. It means going out there every day, talking to people and investigating dead ends. I know sometimes it''s just showing up and making sure there''s not going to be a disturbance. I know it''s writing tickets and giving warnings. I know it''s not about pulling the gun out." He stood up, and pointed his finger at her. "But I also know it''s not about sitting in the damned office every day and moving files around and getting coffee." He pointed at the file. "And I also know it''s not about sitting around here discussing my stupid dreams and answering to you. How about you, doctor? Do you understand your job?"


    "I really don''t believe that''s what the issue-"


    "No, tell me," Wyatt said angrily. "When you went to school to study medicine, was your job to come in here and talk to guys like me once a month, find some stupid trivial thing to get your claws into, to prove to your boss that you can actually tell one of us from the other? That you care about the differences between us? Was that it, really?" He paused for dramatic effect, leaning over her desk, waited for her to open her mouth to answer, and then cut her off. "Because I don''t think that''s what you were trained to do. Just like I wasn''t trained to be the office lackey and to deal with your bullsh-"


    "Wyatt?" the doctor asked. "I asked you a question. Do you understand your role here?"


    Wyatt inhaled sharply, realizing he was still seated.


    "Yes doctor," he said quietly. "I think so."


    "Good," the doctor said. "Because the sooner you understand that, the sooner you''ll find a way to properly fit in here with the force. It''s a good job you have here, Wyatt. If you really want to help the way you say you do, you''ll understand that everybody here has an important job. Every last one of us. You might see it as just answering a phone or giving somebody a file, but what you''re really doing is helping somebody do the things they need to do. Just like when the captain asks for more funds to cover your benefits. Just like when the accountant makes sure that all the numbers add up, so you can get paid. Just like when a policeman gets a description from a file you gave him, and uses it to catch somebody who might attack you or somebody you care about on the way home."


    It''s an intricate system, Wyatt thought, looking off to the side to keep from rolling his eyes. A complex machine.


    "It''s very much like... an intricate system." The doctor turned back to the file, and closed it quickly, smiling. "A whole bunch of parts making up a complex machine. You''re a part of that."


    "I understand that, doctor," Wyatt said. "Thank you."


    "Now, next month, Wyatt, I''m hoping that when I ask your captain about you, he''ll tell me you''re showing the enthusiasm I know you''re capable of showing."


    "Yes doctor," Wyatt said. "I''m hoping for that too."


    "Excellent," the doctor said, leaning back in her chair, tossing his file into the discard pile, before rummaging through the box for the next one. She looked back, a bit startled. "That''s it, officer Milter. You may go."


    "Yes, doctor," Wyatt said, getting up. "Thank you."


    "You''re very welcome," she said, before pressing down on the phone. "Please send in Officer Jamille."

 Chapter 5

    By the time he got to his desk to fish the scissors and glue from his pants, he heard the secretary call to him.


    "Milter, pick up on 4. It''s your sister."


    Wyatt went to the phone. "Officer Wyatt Milter speaking," he said, with tongue-in-cheek.


    "Hi Wyatt..." Tanya said. "Um... when are you getting off? Same as usual?"


    Wyatt thought she sounded worried. "Not for another couple of hours, but I never took a dinner break, so..."


    "Can you get away for a bit? I''m walking through Hyde Park. I feel like... I know this is going to sound silly, but I feel like I''m being followed."


    "Hold on," Wyatt said quickly. "I can get the dispatcher to send a car around straight away."


    "Oh no, don''t," Tanya said quickly. "I''m sure it''s nothing, I''m just feeling a bit uneasy. Look, if you''re busy-"


    "Sis, it''s no problem, hold on, I''ll call you on your cellphone..." Wyatt hung up the receiver, and went across the office, pulling his cellphone out and turning it on. Most of the few policemen there were hanging around doing nothing, sipping coffee and waiting for something to happen. When he got to the secretary, he said, "I''m heading out for my dinner break. I''ll be back in a half-hour, ok?"


    "Uh huh," the secretary said, not looking away from the computer. Wyatt grabbed a glance. Solitaire.


    The sun had set, and the evening air was cooler than he expected, and his fingers had a bit more trouble getting the phone number to come up than usual. Finally he got the dial-tone, and with his free hand he grabbed his badge, and waved it at the oncoming taxis.


    "Wyatt?" came his sister''s voice.


    "Hey, I''m just getting in a cab now."


    "Ok, I''m heading to the north side of the park. I don''t know what I was thinking, walking through there at this time of night."


    "Why''re you so late tonight?" Wyatt said as a taxi pulled over.


    "Just had extra marking to do, that''s all..."


    Wyatt jumped in. "Hyde Park, please, and quickly," he said to the cabby as he flashed his badge. The cabby grunted -- cops in the city didn''t have the best reputation as tippers. "So what''s going on? You think you''re being followed?"


    "I thought so," Tanya said. "Back about a minute ago I thought some guy was keeping pace with me on the path. When I went for my bag I think he backed off. Thought I had mace or something?"


    "Hm... alright, well, I''ll be there in about five minutes," Wyatt said. "Are you sure you don''t want me to call this in? There might be a car right there."


    "No, there isn''t, I didn''t see any before I got into the park," Tanya said. "I''m still about five minutes from the other side."


    "Alright, well, get to that side quickly and I''ll meet you there. If you see a group of people, or else a well-lit area near the road, then-"


    "Shit," Tanya said.


    "What?" Wyatt said, his heart jumping.


    "I think he''s behind me again," Tanya said.


    "Do you actually have mace?" Wyatt said, looking with anxiety at the cab''s speedometer. Cars were flying by pretty fast.


    "No, I don''t have anything," she said. "I keep meaning to, but you know... Christ. Hold on..."


    "Is there nobody around there?" Wyatt said, before covering the phone and asking, "Hey, can you pick it up? This is urgent."


    "I''m going as fast as I can, man," the cabby said.


    "Yeah, there''s a few guys ahead. I''m going to go up to them and pretend to ask for directions or something."


    "Ok, good, that should scare him off-" Wyatt said, before turning back to the cabby. "Just do the best you can. Don''t worry about speed limits. I''m a cop."


    "Excuse me?" he head his sister ask. "Can you tell me- Aigh!"


    "Tanya!" Wyatt yelled.


    "Oh shit, oh shit," Tanya said, panting. Wyatt could the sounds of men hollering for her.


    "What''s going on?"


    "They''ve got knives," Tanya said. "Wyatt, where are you?"


    "Hurry the fuck up!" Wyatt yelled at the cabby.


    The cabby gestured in front of him. In the distance Wyatt could see blinking. Yellow construction lights.


    "Wyatt!" he heard her yell, but it was distant this time, and then he heard a smack. His sister shrieked, but it was even more distant this time. The sounds of men laughing came to his ears, and then he heard one of the voices coming closer.


    "Tanya?"


    "Wyatt! Waaaaahhhh-yatttt!" a mocking falsetto voice sounded in his ear, before the phone hung up.


    "Oh my lord," Wyatt said. "How far away are we?"


    "We''re one block over man, that way."


    "Call 911 on this cell, tell them to send cars to Hyde Park now!" Wyatt tossed him the phone, and opened the door.


    "What about the fare, man?"


    "Meet me at Hyde Park and I''ll pay you there!"


    "Oh whatever, man," the cabby said.The narrative has been illicitly obtained; should you discover it on Amazon, report the violation.


    Wyatt turned around, wondering if the driver was going to call or not, but some space had cleared ahead of him and he was already driving.


    "You bastard!" he said, and he knocked on the window. The cabby gave him a glare, before picking up the cell phone and shrugging. Wyatt saw him dial 911, and yelled "Thank you!" before turning around and running across the lane towards the sidewalk.


    A horn blared at him, and Wyatt jumped back as a car ran right in front of him. He looked back in the direction of oncoming traffic, and the headlights were blinding. He pulled out his badge and held it up, flashing it in their direction, but the next car didn''t stop either. When it passed, Wyatt saw that he had enough space, and he jumped across, narrowly missed by the next car. Shrieking tires.


    He collected himself and ran to the corner, almost pushing several people over. "Call 911," he yelled. "Tell them to send cars to Hyde Park now!"


    He caught a few glances from the people walking by. He could tell they thought he was crazy.


    He rounded the corner and saw the streetlights in front of the black expanse of trees, and he ran for it as fast as his lungs could handle it. He wanted to yell out for help again but his breath was short, and he''d have to stop to do it. As he ran, he felt for his gun at his side, and it was there, but the holster was clipped tight. Through his gasps, he couldn''t even remember the last time he''d opened it.


    It was barely a minute between the time he left the cab and the time his feet first landed on the grass of Hyde Park, but it felt like an hour. After taking a few steps, he realized that he didn''t know where she was. Five minutes away, she''d said. Five minutes. If she was hurrying, that could have been a few hundred yards. But straight in?


    Yeah, straight in. It''ll get you closer to her.


    He charged in, and ran through the trees to the closest lit path he could find. She wouldn''t have been stupid enough to go off the lit path. She''d be close to it. Still no sounds, though. He ran harder, panting as the cold air cut into his throat. "Tanya!?" he tried shouting, but it barely came out. It was only a few steps before the path started to hit an incline, and Wyatt stumbled a bit before regaining the pace. It wasn''t easy. It was hurting to lift his knees now, his legs felt heavier than he''d ever known, even worse than the toughest training days at the academy. He could see a shed at the top, but it looked like there were so many trees between him and it, and as each one passed, he realized he wasn''t running, so much as partaking in a pathetic imitation of running.


    My sister, he thought, and his eyes went wet, and immediately cold. His legs were failing, and he stumbled over to a tree, to take a breath before beginning to jog again.


    They''ve got knives. His head pushed out that thought.


    His heart was pounding within him as the lamp above seemed to make everything beyond it even darker. He glanced around, and saw nothing but the outlines of trees, black within a deeper black. Nothing was moving anywhere -- if he wasn''t sure that his sister was in the park, he could have been convinced there wasn''t another living thing within a mile. He could make out the construct at the top better now. It was one of those gardener sheds with tools locked up inside. It wouldn''t have a phone.


    Christ, you moron, he thought. You should have kept your phone.


    As he panted, staring down at his feet, more awful thoughts filled his mind. Who were these bastards? What were they doing to her? Where were the damned police? Weren''t there supposed to be patrols through the park at night? Sirens, he thought, I''d give anything for some sirens.


    His ears picked up a shriek. It was to the left.


    Downhill.


    He immediately started running again, and he was growing numb to the pain. In the failing light he could barely make out the outlines of a small children''s playground, and shadows within it. The lights were off, for some reason, but as he got closer, and the land leveled out, he was certain there were men''s voices too.


    "Get off me you bastard!" he heard Tanya yell, and he sighed in relief, knowing that no matter how bad it was, she was still able to fight back. He realized then that there was going to be a bunch of them, and he''d need to use his gun. Oh Christ, he thought. I can''t shoot this thing. Christ oh chri-


    Maybe you won''t have to. She said knives, not guns. They won''t be stupid.


    They''ll put a knife to her throat. Oh God, he thought, they''ll put a knife to her-


    He pushed the thought away.


    There were just a few trees now between him and the playground, and he slowed his pace. The noise they''d been making had masked his own footsteps through the grass. As he snuck the last few yards, undoing the holster, he could see the figures more clearly. Two were standing, arms crossed, laughing. He could make out his sister''s long hair. Closer to the swings, one guy was holding her awkwardly from behind, he seemed to have her arms locked behind her somehow. Another was right in front of her, holding her face and squishing her face so that her lips were puckering.


    His free hand was clasped on her breast.


    Wyatt inhaled sharply in fury. He grabbed his revolver and immediately pulled it out.


    And tripped over a tree root.


    He landed awkwardly. A large rock pushed up straight into his stomach, and the impact forced a "Gwaff!" sound out his mouth. His face went straight into the earth, and his nose stung like a spike was being pushed into his face. Everything was black for a moment. His arms flailed about, and his hands...


    His hands were empty.


    "Holy shit, man," one of them said, rushing over. "It''s... ha ha ha, it''s a cop!"


    "What?" said the other. It was the two guys who were standing to the side, enjoying watching the rough play from earlier.


    "What''s going on?" came a more distant voice. One of the two on his sister.


    "It''s a cop," the first one repeated. "And look here, he''s dropped something."


    Oh fuck, Wyatt.


    "Well, how about that," the second one said. "What do you think? Do you think this was the guy on the phone? What was his name?"


    "Waaaahhhh yattttt!" one of them called mockingly.


    "Oh boy, Wyatt coming to save his..." he paused, and then chuckled. "Is this your girlfriend? Holy shit, man, are you his-"


    Wyatt rolled over to get a look at the shadowy men, and immediately one of them kicked him in the stomach, and the other leaned down and grabbed his head, and twisted it towards the jungle gym. His eyes were finally getting used to the darkness, and the first thing he could make out was the horrified expression on his sister''s face.


    "That''s my brother, and don''t you dare hurt him, or the entire city is going to come hunt you down."


    "My little lady," said the one who was grasping her face. "Who are they going to know to look for?"


    "Ha!" laughed the one holding her from behind. "She thinks she''s leaving this park tonight."


    "You assholes!" shouted Wyatt. "You can''t do this!"


    "And who''s going to stop us, Mister Wyatt?" whispered the one holding his head. "I don''t hear any voices, any sirens... It''s just us out here, Mister Wyatt."


    "Hey man, turn him up this way," said the nearby voice of the one who kicked him. Immediately, the strong grip on his head twisted him so that he was looking up at the man''s face. He was surprisingly young and well-dressed, from what Wyatt was able to see. His hair was cut neatly. Despite everything, Wyatt couldn''t understand what a guy like this was doing in the middle of the park. He''d expected hoodlums, but they were all dressed similarly well. They even had college Lettermen jackets on.


    "Hey Wyatt," the one closest to him said. "I''m going to do her last, when it''s my turn. It''ll be on the swings. And afterwards, you can watch as I burn her."


    "No!" Wyatt yelled.


    "Oh yes, Wyatt," the man said, as he pulled out a cigarette lighter. "You ever seen somebody get burned by this? You''re about to. It''s a crazy sight." He flicked it on, and the flame from it jumped extra high. His face lit up, casting strange shadows on his eyes. "You ever seen the skin on someone''s face melt?"


    "No..." Wyatt sobbed.


    "Oh yeah, man, yeah," the man said. "It''s wicked-"


    The whoosh came in from nowhere, and instantly three feet of narrow pine hit the man right on the side of his face.

 Chapter 6

    As blood exploded off the point of impact, the man didn''t make a noise, and instead just fell over lifeless to the ground.


    "I bet it is," came a rough voice from the left.


    "What the fu-?" Wyatt felt the grip on his head relax, and his face flopped to the ground. He twisted his body to try to get a better look, and he saw a large shadow of a man holding a baseball bat. The shadow wound up quickly, and with another quick swing the man who''d been holding Wyatt was down on the ground, screaming in pain. "My knee!"


    Wyatt looked around for his gun, and immediately realized that he wouldn''t know what to do with it if he found it. The man holding the bat turned towards the other two at the swings, and Wyatt tried to make him out in the darkness.


    "Hey asshole, what the fuck are you doing here? This is none of your business." The one who''d been grabbing Tanya pulled out his switchblade, and moved to face him. Wyatt stood up slowly to watch as the shadowy figure advanced, twirling the bat around nonchalantly. He was handling it almost as if he were a ninja and it was his blade. It was a ludicrous thing to imagine, though, a ninja with a baseball bat... Wyatt was able to focus in on him better. The jersey was dark with white pinstripes, and the number 0 was written on the back, with SLUGGER over the top of it. The cap was also dark, but underneath it was... a mask?


    The man with the bat stopped twirling it long enough to point it straight at the knife. "If you''re going to do something with that, do it." The voice was rumbling, oddly clear despite being from behind a mask.


    The guy with the knife edged forward apprehensively, before making a swipe. It was defensive, not coming close to the batsman, who chuckled. The guy took another hurried swipe, before the batsman spun around, caught a grip on his bat, and lunged forward with a swing that hit the other right in the ribs. "Augh!" he yelled.


    "Shit, Cyrus," called out the one who was doubled over next to Wyatt. "Take him out!"


    The one who was holding Tanya shoved her into the sand below the swings. Wyatt only just realized how big the guy was. He must have been well over six feet six, and broad as an ox and practically busting out of his college jacket. "Come on, little man," the guy who must have been Cyrus said. "You think I''m afraid of you and your twig?"


    "I don''t know," rumbled the batsman. "Are you afraid of the guy who''s pointing an arrow at your back right now?"


    Cyrus paused where he was standing, and Wyatt''s heart lept inside. He saw that Tanya was frozen as well, shocked and also somewhat fascinated by what she thought might be coming.


    "What are you talking about?" Cyrus said.


    "Don''t you read the news?" the guy rumbled. "There''s a new gang in town."


    "Who''s pointing an arrow at my back?" Cyrus said, turning his head slightly to see who was behind him.


    That was all the batsman needed, as he lept into the air, swinging straight at the guy''s head. Cyrus saw the attack in time to lean back to dodge it, but the batsman continued, letting the bat swing over his head, before continuing around for another circling blow as he crouch-landed, this time aimed at his ankles with all his body''s weight put into the swing. It collided with a crunching impact, and Cyrus yelled as his legs kicked up awkwardly to the side before he toppled over to his side, clutching the base of his legs and screaming in pain.


    The batsman looked around, making sure that everybody was disabled, before calling out, "You guys want more?"


    "You fucking bluffed. There''s nobody else out there," said the one who''d been holding the knife, clutching his side as he leaned against the slide.


    The batsman turned his way, and Wyatt could see that his eyes, the only thing visible behind the mask, were flashing brilliantly in the darkness, even showing some dark markings underneath them, as if painted with the same stuff real ballplayers use to reduce the glare. "You''re right," his voice rumbled. "It''s just me. If you feel cheated, you''re welcome to have another crack at me."


    The man shook his head, and ran over to where Cyrus was writhing in pain. The one who''d been holding Wyatt down was crouched over the batsman''s first victim, and was gradually bringing him to by shaking him. "Come on, let''s get the fuck out of here. Get to the van!"


    The batsman walked over to where Tanya was, and talked to her in a low voice that Wyatt couldn''t make out. Wyatt was still trying to find his gun on the ground, and couldn''t. He didn''t know what to do, so he went close to the guys on the ground, but the one who''d been holding him stared up angrily. "Keep back, asshole."


    Wyatt paused, and decided it was best not to come at a guy who was obviously feeling cornered. He helped his friend to his feet, and the two stumbled off into the darkness together. When Wyatt looked over, he saw that the other two were also stumbling off, much more awkwardly as Cyrus was a much heavier load to support.


    Wyatt didn''t know what to do. Without a gun, did he want to try to give chase? He turned towards his sister and the shadowy figure standing before her, and ran up to them.


    "Yes, yes, I''m fine. I''ll need a new blouse," she said exasperatedly, showing the tears in it, "but that''s alright. Thank you, thank you so much."


    "It''s nothing," the man said.


    "Yes, thanks," Wyatt said, and the man turned to him and pointed the bat straight at him. Wyatt could barely see the whites of his eyes from behind the dark mask. The rim from the cap -- Wyatt thought he could make out the Minnesota Twins logo on it -- was casting a strong shadow over his face.If you encounter this story on Amazon, note that it''s taken without permission from the author. Report it.


    "You," he rumbled. "Why are you alone? Where the hell are the other cops?"


    "There aren''t any. Somebody was supposed to phone. I guess he didn''t-"


    Suddenly, from far off, the sounds of a siren wailing slowly eased into the park, and as it grew, it started echoing off the trees.


    "Every night this week we''ve had someone here in this park, and there''s never a cop. Never," the man rumbled. "Something needs to be done about that."


    Wyatt looked at his sister''s face and felt shame wash over him. Her eyes looked upon him. Oddly enough, despite having almost been raped, he could have sworn she was pitying him. He looked at the ground. The sirens were getting louder and the flicker of red and white lights was starting to flash in speckles on the ground. ¡°I¡¯m sorry,¡± Wyatt pleaded. ¡°I can¡¯t do anything about that. Nobody listens to me.¡±


    "Then I guess they''ll have to listen to me," the batsman said. He tilted his head, and pointed at the ground behind him. "Your gun."


    Wyatt turned around and saw a black, metallic shape barely catching the flashing light. He ran over to get the gun, feeling sore from the way he was manhandled earlier, and it was surprisingly difficult to bend over to pick it up. When it was in his hand, and he was upright again, he looked over, and saw that Tanya was alone, facing into the darkness and calling out "But who are you?"


    There was no response.


    Wyatt came back over to her side, and she turned to him. Her face was filled with relief and fatigue as she asked, "Are you ok?"


    "Am I ok? Are you ok?" he asked.


    She bit her lip and nodded, before looking off into the darkness where the stranger had gone. She continued nodding, and Wyatt saw her eyes welling up with tears before she turned to him and hugged him, and began crying. Wyatt tried to support her weight as best he could, and hugged her back, and didn''t let go until the voices started reaching them.


    "Wyatt," she said breathlessly as she leaned back. "Do we tell them?"


    "What do you mean?" Wyatt said. "We have to tell them something."


    "I know," she said, "but do we tell them everything?"


    Wyatt opened his mouth, but didn''t know what to say.


    A half-hour later and they were back at the department. An officer took their statements, and Tanya, sitting there with an ice-pack on her cheek and bandages on her forehead, calmly related the story. One guy followed her, and she ran for help to three other guys, but they attacked her altogether. One of them had gotten the drop on Wyatt before he could draw his gun. They wrestled on the ground, one of them had kicked him, but Wyatt had managed to keep them from getting his gun. When they heard the sirens, all four guys ran away.


    Wyatt said nothing the entire time.


    "Milter?" the officer asked. "Is this how it went down?"


    Wyatt nodded silently.


    The officer looked at Wyatt curiously, as though he were surprised Wyatt could have managed to keep two attackers from getting his gun when he''d dropped it... but there it was, sitting in his holster. The officer explained that something similar had happened in a park in the North end of the city. Two guys had scared a Portuguese girl walking by herself, and she went for help to another two guys, and all four ganged up on her. She was raped by three of them, and the fourth was about to get his turn when they were scared off by a group of guys leaving the gym late. Same general description -- four white guys, well-dressed, Lettermen jackets, one much bigger than the others.


    Wyatt looked over at his sister as the officer told them about the other victim. She stared into the cup of tea that they''d brought for her but that she hadn''t touched. She didn''t look up until the statement was passed over to them to sign, which she did quickly. Wyatt did as well, and before long, they were both out the door and sitting in a taxi cab.


    "I wonder if we should have said something," Wyatt said.


    "What?" she asked, staring out the window. "I didn''t feel like explaining it to them."


    "Yeah, but, it''s a lie..."


    "The truth is too weird, Wyatt," Tanya said. "You heard what the guy said. There''s a new gang in town. He was talking about that guy who''s shooting arrows at people."


    Wyatt looked down at the scrapbook on his lap. He''d snagged it right before they left the department.


    "I don''t want to get involved in any of that," Tanya said. "Something really fucked-up is happening in this city, and I want to stay out of it."


    "But you were almost-"


    "Almost, Wyatt," Tanya said, putting her hand up and waving him away. "But I''m fine. We made it out of there fine."


    Wyatt exhaled, and looked out his own window at the street. Small groups of people were walking over the sidewalk like trains on a track, huddled over in the crisp autumn cold, not really looking anywhere else but where they were going. Twice he saw policecars parked near restaurants.


    Anyone of them, Wyatt thought. Anyone of these people could be lunatics.


    The cab pulled up to their house, and Tanya paid for it from money pulled out of her now-ruined purse. Soon they were inside, Tanya cleaning herself up in the bathroom, and Wyatt was sitting in the kitchen with the scrapbook in front of him, a mug of hot chocolate in his hand that he suddenly had no interest in drinking.


    Tanya came out of the bathroom. The bandages were off, and the cuts and bruises didn''t look so bad.


    "I''m going to bed. Goodnight," she said as she turned to head up the corridor to her room.


    "Tanya," he called out.


    She came back and peaked her head around the corner. "What is it, Wyatt?


    Wyatt felt a stirring in his gut. "I''m sorry I wasn''t there for you."


    "It''s ok, meine bruder," she said. "You tried. It turned out ok." She smiled, before continuing her way to the bedroom. When he heard her door close, Wyatt suddenly felt cold all over, and the stirring in his gut stayed there as he flipped through the scrapbook with disinterest for a few minutes, and it continued even when he went to the den to watch some television, and it stuck with him throughout that, until he couldn''t even bother to watch the screen anymore, and when he headed to bed and tucked himself in without even taking off the uniform, he let the cold and the stirring in his gut take over, and the tears started pouring out, tears of fatigue, relief, and shame.

 Chapter 7

    The next day as he walked in to work, Wyatt was surprised first by the large number of patrol cars parked nearby the department, and then by the crowd of police that were loitering outside. There was supposed to be enough floor space in the meeting room upstairs to handle every policeman on every shift, and although it would have been crowded and some people might have been caught behind pillars or whatnot, there shouldn''t have been any spillover into the main floor, let alone outside. Amongst the policemen hanging around outside chatting to each other, Wyatt saw some badges from different precincts, but there were no major occasions for that day, and no riot gear on anybody, which meant only one thing.


    Manhunt.


    Immediately Wyatt cursed himself for not checking the news that morning. It had been a quiet breakfast between him and his sister, and while there was still an awkward feeling lingering there, he''d stayed at the table out of a feeling of obligation, even though they said nothing of any real value. He could have taken the opportunity to read a newspaper or surf the internet or listen to the radio, rather than sitting there staring at his unopened scrapbook and letting toast grew colder as he did nothing but feel sorry for himself. Later, he''d even gone out for a walk, trying not to think about the surreal events from the night before, and as he looped around the Lomaine shopping complex he finally realized the funny futile irony in trying not to think about something -- that there was an inherent guarantee that you won''t be able to think about anything else. When he got home, he tried flipping through the scrapbook to try to see if there was a possible connection to the stranger that saved them the night before, or if it really had been just a decoy tactic. Invariably, though, thinking about it just stirred up images of the four attackers, his sister being so close to rape and, if their threats had any force behind them, butchery and... He couldn''t escape that image, and it was so terrible that he forced himself to go into work early, in the hopes that something there might get his mind off things, even if it was Kent''s mockery.


    From the looks of it, though, Kent was probably lost somewhere in the sea of officers inside.


    Wyatt slipped through the loitering and gossiping policemen to get through to the front door. If there was an advantage to being small, it was times like these.


    "-find this guy? He only operates at night, from the looks of-"


    "-stupid wild goose chase. It''s busy work, that''s all it-"


    "-the whole point. Get him before there''s another attack, or else-"


    The archer. It was a manhunt for the archer.


    When Wyatt finally got through the doors, he saw that the main office downstairs was packed as well, and there were even people already sitting on top of his desk. Everybody''s attention seemed to be leaning towards the rear stairs that led up to the second floor, but from the looks of it, nobody was going to be getting in any further. He shuffled his way over to the secretary''s desk. As usual, her computer screen showed rows of cards.


    "What''s going on?" he asked.


    The secretary looked over at him quickly. "The Mayor is coming by."


    "No kidding?" he asked.


    The secretary didn''t respond, as she calmly went back to her Solitaire.


    After looking around and seeing nothing but shoulders everywhere, he noticed the empty garbage pail behind the secretary''s desk. Shrugging, he reached down, turned it over, and stepped up onto the back of it. It was an improvement, and he could see that people coming from the copy room out back had started passing around sheets of paper with a sketch on them. None of them were close enough for him to see, but at first glance it seemed that the face was of a severely underweight, unshaven guy in his forties, looking out with an angry expression of somebody who was being kept from getting his next taste of meth.


    That seemed wrong to Wyatt. Sure, the guy in the sketch looked like he had a grudge to keep, but everything else felt off, although mentally he couldn''t put his finger on it. He thought back to the scrapbook at home, and while he knew he''d be adding this sketch to it anyways, he knew it wouldn''t fit.


    Soon enough a murmuring broke out around the crowd, and many of the heads turned towards the main doorway. Shifting around awkwardly atop the overturned garbage pail, Wyatt was able to get a peak out one of the windows. He saw a black stretch limousine pull up, and the crowd of policemen moved aside to create a path right at the doorway. The door opened, and out came three figures -- it was Mayor Ramsay, Gerald Adams from the DA''s office, and a third man that Wyatt didn''t recognize right away. John Ramsay, a handsome middle-aged man who still had all his hair, was in a dark blue suit minus the tie -- the formal/casual look being all the rage in politics right now -- and bearing that same mixed expression of happiness and satisfaction that was all over his new posters throughout the city. Gerald Adams was buzzing all about him, in that way that powerful men are so fond of, creating that impression of a man around whom all important things orbit.


    But it was that third man that caught Wyatt''s eye. It seemed like he''d been put together by somebody with a fondness for art deco and Miami Vice -- the dark green suit, the dark yellow shirt, the red tie, the black hair combed back perfectly, in a shaped that suggested it must have been greased back, but no shine giving that away, the sunglasses in place despite the fact that it wasn''t really all that bright out, and the less-than-subtle holster straps that showed guns on each side. It could only have been Clay Warren, Ramsay''s personally bodyguard, of whom very little was known apart from his ever-presence at the Mayor''s side at any public function. Even now, surrounded by several hundred cops, Clay had the look of somebody who was expecting an assassination attempt, glancing in a reserved but still slightly hostile manner at those around them as they prepared to move through the crowd to the department headquarters. It was an effective glare -- it probably bought the Mayor an extra foot of personal space despite all the crowding.


    As they left behind the limousine, and made their way inside, Wyatt saw that a taxi cab was pulling up on the far-side of it, and from the back of it, out stepped the harried Assistant DA, Petra, talking into her cell phone with a slight air of anxiety Wyatt had not seen before -- although it seemed to dissipate within an instant of being in view of anybody else. Almost immediately after stepping out, the cellphone was shut and thrust into her pocket, as if it had never been out, and her face returned to that determined air that she was so famous for, the almost unnervingly calm look that must have helped her succeed so well in the interrogation room, where more intimidating cops failed. Unfortunately for her, the attention of everybody in the crowd was following the Mayor, and she found herself fighting her way in, and even though she made it through the doors, she couldn''t make it any deeper than near Wyatt''s desk, and she, like everybody else, had to watch as the Adams, Ramsay and Warren disappeared up the steps in the back, as everybody heard the Captain''s voice coming over the PA system.


    "-that one? Oh! There you go, we''re on now. Good, how''s the sound? Ok, good, don''t touch anything. Excuse me? Everybody?" He coughed and cleared his throat. "We need you to quiet down now. Officers, please keep it quiet so that everybody inside can hear. If somebody''s at the doors, please make sure they''re shut. Are they shut?" There was some rumbling as the doors closed, fencing some of the officers outside. "Good. Some are still outside, eh? Ok, well, we''ll have to make sure they get filled in afterwards. Alright, everybody, when it''s quiet we can proceed..."


    The murmuring didn''t take long to die down, until it got to the point that despite being filled to the brim with cops, it was quieter than some of the night shifts Wyatt has worked. Even the phones were off, probably being redirected to other precincts running on reduced crews.


    "Ok, in the interest of saving time, I''m just going to pass this over to our Mayor. Mayor Ramsay?"


    A subdued applause circulated around the cops downstairs as the knocking sounds of a microphone being awkwardly handled came over the speakers.


    "Thank you very much, Captain," said a different voice, and Wyatt immediately recognized that same slick delivery that had been all over his re-election ads that were currently playing. "Ladies and Gentlemen of Port City''s finest, I''m glad to have you all here today to discuss what''s going on. Surely by now you''re all familiar with a recent string of attacks around the city being made by an unknown person armed with a bow. You also might be aware that there are rumours floating about that the person may or may not be targeting people based on a pattern. Conspiracies being what they are, I don''t doubt that many might be tempted by this line of thinking, but the more information comes out in the District Attorney''s investigation, the more it becomes readily apparent that these attacks have no pattern."If you discover this tale on Amazon, be aware that it has been unlawfully taken from Royal Road. Please report it.


    From his perch, Wyatt looked over at Petra and saw an expression of calm. After last night, the conversation that he overheard at the DA''s office felt now like it had happened a week ago, but Wyatt still remembered her insistence that something was less-than-random about this man, and it made her demeanour now doubly mysterious to him. Either she''d changed her mind, or she had a great poker face.


    "What you might not have known is that in cooperation with the District Attorney''s office I''ve managed to facilitate the creation of a task force that''s dedicated to this string of attacks." Some murmuring started up, but the Mayor didn''t break pace, speaking a bit louder to quickly rein attention back to him. "As you can imagine, ever since the events of Hyde Park, it has been the mandate of my term as Mayor to ensure that random acts of violence of all forms in this city are dealt with in a manner that is both swift and suffocating. This new attacker, by going to the media with his latest victim, obviously is looking to capture the attention of the public, and that, combined with other challenges that are arising from his methods, has compelled my office to again take swift and suffocating action. As we near the anniversary of that terrible day that saw our city lose so many innocent civilians, along with so many of Port City''s finest, I feel that we have no choice but to respond. To do otherwise would be to send the wrong sort of message to those who wish to bring violence back to our fair city."


    "Thankfully, even our early work on the task force has been rewarding. The sheets that are circulating now represent a breakthrough in our investigation, which Gerald Adams will elaborate on at this time. I would like to thank him specifically for his great help in aiding the task force, and in addition I would like to thank all of you for your continued service to Port City, and as I cede the microphone to the District Attorney I''d like to wish you luck on your efforts today. Thanks very much. Gerry?"


    Murmuring broke out once more as the sheets started ruffling around again. Somebody finally thrust a handful onto Wyatt, who took one and looked around for anybody who needed it. Nobody was looking at him, though, and the secretary continued playing Solitaire below him, so he dumped them on top of the filing cabinet behind him. He turned back around and surveyed the room, and saw that Petra was on her phone again, hunched over and shielding her mouth as she talked into it.


    "Thanks Mr. Mayor, and I think we all would like to extend our gratitude for your leadership of our city this past year." There were rumblings of agreement around the room, as well as the flapping sound of people trying to applaud while holding their sheets. "Alright everybody, hopefully by now you all have a picture of the perp in front of you along with a brief description. Our best intelligence at the moment leads towards a disgruntled military veteran who''s probably in his early-to-mid forties, based on the composite descriptions from the various witnesses we''ve been able to gather. He''s extremely thin, to the point that we''re currently looking into narcotics abuse. Our examinations of the weapons show them to be crude and inexpensive, which suggests the possibility that he might be capable of making them on his own. We''re looking into people who make regular visits to handyman shops of some kind. We''re also on the lookout for somebody who rents Rambo frequently from the video store." Some laughter went around the room.


    "Thanks folks, I''m here all week." The DA chuckled. "Seriously, though, everything about the latest attack says things are going to be escalating. He''s getting bolder, the level of masochism is rising, and involving the PCFM radio station seems to suggest a desire to bring in more media attention than he already had. We don''t know what direction this guy is going to go in next, and with some of the events in the next few weeks, including the upcoming Hyde Park Commemoration Ceremony, we suspect that the earlier we get this guy, the better. Understood?" Affirmative responses came from the crowd, and Wyatt threw out a half-hearted "Yes sir," but inwardly he was a bit disturbed. As the DA had talked, he knew they were working from the same data that he''d seen, but were coming up with completely different conclusions. He looked around to see if others were going with what was being said, and for the most part he saw untroubled faces on all the cops, and even some nodding agreement.


    Then his eyes fell upon Petra, who was staring right back at him, her face expressionless as ever. His heart skipped a beat and he quickly looked down at the sketch.


    "Our first step is to begin talking to people and circulating this profile as quickly as possible. We''re hoping that if enough doors are knocked on, we''ll either get a good suspect quickly or at the very least let him know we''re wise to him. That''s why we''ve got so many of you here. As usual, we''re just asking questions, trying to get basic information, so let''s not start a widespread panic out there when we''re talking to people. We''ve brought in officers from several precincts today because we wanted to start coordinating things quickly. From the looks of it, we''ve got too many people here to do this indoors, so when we get outside we''ll split things up. Everybody is going to be getting their assignments by radio from their precinct''s dispatchers, and we might as well start heading outside now-"


    Instantly there was rumbling around the room as cops began to spill outdoors and pour onto the street, informing their comrades who were standing around outside what the speech was about. Wyatt watched as more of the sheets were handed out, until he was bumped from behind by somebody reaching for the pile he''d left on the cabinet. Teetering on the pail awkwardly for a second, he jumped down and nearly fell onto the secretary''s desk. Cops were moving fairly intently towards the doors as people outside yelled orders to manage the crowd traffic better. By the time Wyatt got his bearings, the downstairs office was almost emptied except for the last couple dozen policemen coming through from the stairs. Unsure if he was going to be participating in the manhunt or not, Wyatt looked over at his desk.


    A large stack of files was waiting there for him. He sighed, and turned around to fix the garbage pail, before walking over to his desk. Which, when he looked at it a second time, he saw Petra there again, appraising him. Not really sure what to do, he walked over, scratching his cheek.


    "Officer Milter," Petra said in a dead tone of voice.


    "Uh... hi," he said. "Can I help you with something?"


    "I''m not sure," Petra said. "Perhaps not right now." She looked over at the rear corridor, and when Wyatt followed her gaze, it was to see the Captain, the DA, the Mayor and his bodyguard coming down together. The Mayor shook hands with the Captain and the DA, before he left the two of them there discussing something by the stairs. He and Clay made their way through the office and out towards the limo, and as the two walked, the Mayor looked around and gave his almost-sincere smiles to the staff in the office, while Clay checked every angle of the room. In an instant they were gone out the front door, where they were greeted by some informal applause by the cops who were there.


    Wyatt looked back at Petra, who seemed to still be studying the Captain and the DA in the back room as they continued to chat.


    "Well, ok, if you need my help, just let me know," Wyatt said. "I should probably see to these files th-"


    "What''s your impression on this course of action, Officer Milter?" Petra asked.


    "Huh?" Wyatt asked quickly.


    "This search. The suspect. Do you think we''re looking for the right man?" she asked.


    Wyatt studied her intensely. She was obviously talking directly to him, but her eyes were still on the stairs where the Captain and the DA were talking.


    "I''m honestly sure that I''m the last person to know anything about this," he said.


    "Oh, I don''t think that''s true, Wyatt," she said, almost smiling as she turned towards him. "I think you''ve been doing a lot of thinking about this."


    "Well, yeah, thinking," Wyatt said, looking down at his desk, avoiding her gaze. "But thinking is just... thinking."


    "Hm..." she said, "All the same, I''d be very int... Just a second."


    She cut herself off as the DA and the Captain came back out from the corridor, having finished their chat. The Captain immediately turned to Wyatt and called out, "Milter. You''re early. Good. Office. Pronto." Wyatt''s heart suddenly jumped. He''d almost forgotten that he actually was still early for his shift, and the thought occurred to him that maybe he''d be brought in to be a part of the manhunt. After all, the DA had said "as many available men as possible" earlier. He felt his spirits rise up. He was ready to give Petra an apology poorly masked by happiness, but she''d already started walking towards the DA. Smiling inwardly, he walked over to the Captain''s door, and knocked.


    "Milter, get in here," he said.


    "Yes sir," Wyatt answered and walked in.


    The Captain looked up from his desk. "It''s good that you''re here early," he said. "You know what to do."


    "I do, sir?" Wyatt said.


    "Yeah," the Captain said, almost perplexed. "Two creams, two sugars, on the double. I''ve got a long day ahead of me."


    "Yes sir," Wyatt sighed, before turning around to get the Captain''s coffee. Petra and Adams were gone, and two more large stacks of files had been dropped off on his desk.

 Chapter 8

    The manhunt ensured that the office was empty pretty much all day, with whichever police officers not out there knocking on doors being away on calls. With fewer people around to answer phones, Wyatt had been back and forth between his desk and the file room with hardly a break. At one point a call came in and a few cops rushed out the door, and Wyatt wondered if maybe the manhunt had caught a good suspect, but he was too busy to even try to eavesdrop about it. It was almost dinnertime before he had finally taken care of all the files, and was on the phone dealing with script scenario number 14 when he noticed the secretary rushing over to the Captain''s room and knocking on his door.


    "Have you tried telling them to quiet down, ma''am?" Wyatt asked the unsettled woman at the other end of the line.


    "No, I haven''t, because I''ll tell you why. Every time they have a party and I make a complaint to the landlord, he says he''ll talk to them." Wyatt watched as the secretary was explaining something involved, pointing towards the interrogation room. "He''ll talk to them, he says, and he talks to them, but they never quiet down. The last time I tried complaining, he said that I''m the only one in the building who notices the noise, and I asked him what he was trying to say, and he said to me that he wasn''t trying to say anything, just that-"


    Wyatt saw as the Captain came out of to the door of his private office, and glanced around. His eyes fell upon Wyatt briefly before they continued the scan. Wyatt himself looked around and noticed that besides himself, the secretary, the dispatcher, and a janitor, nobody was around.


    "-which got me to thinking that maybe because I hear so much about how we have so many police these days, that maybe I ought to call the police, because I think if a police officer were able to come down, and I could show them the place, then they could see that there really is an awful ruckus coming from that room. So I said this to the landlord, and when I said this to the landlord, he told me to go right ahead-"


    Wyatt watched as the Captain looked directly at him once more, before turning to the secretary with a look of disbelief on his face. Finally, he looked at Wyatt and said, "Milter, get off the phone."


    Wyatt covered it. "I''m dealing with a complaint," he said.


    "Milter," the Captain said. "We''ve got a guy being brought in for questioning and we''re understaffed. We need you in the interrogation room. Get the dispatcher on it, pronto."


    "Yes sir," Wyatt said, and instantly his stomach felt light. "Excuse me, ma''am, yes," he said, trying to interrupt her. "Ma''am, yes, you were right to call in and... yes, ma''am... Ma''am, I''m going to be transfering you over to somebody who can... Ma''am?"


    "Milter!" the Captain hollered.


    While the woman was still talking, Wyatt quickly transferred the woman over to the dispatcher and stood up. He suddenly realized he had no idea what to do. He''d only ever seen a couple of interrogations, and he hadn''t participated in either of them. He couldn''t tell if his confusion was because he''d completely forgotten the protocol for it, or if they''d never bothered to teach him.


    At that moment, the front door opened, and Detective Jamille, who was dressed in plain clothes, was walking in, guiding in another young black man, handcuffed behind his back, dressed in an oversized hoodie and with a cap on backwards. Wyatt snapped to attention, and went to meet them.


    "You''re in the way, Milter," Jamille said curtly.


    "Detective Jamille," Wyatt said, holding out his hand ambiguously. "The Captain told me to assist you..."


    "The Captain told you what?" Jamille said, pausing so suddenly that the suspect he was guiding in took another two steps before Jamille jerked him back. Wyatt looked him over, and felt a chill down his spine. What had this man done? He noticed there were a couple of blood stains on his baggy sweater, and when he looked up into his eyes, he saw the look of an anxious but angry man staring straight back at him. As an observer, Wyatt could categorize people who were brought in pretty quickly. Thugs were all alike -- innocent or guilty, they were always annoyed, but usually resigned to the process. Innocent suspects often looked a bit more nervous but usually also seemed like they felt what was happening was unfair. Guilty suspects were less predictable. If they were level-headed, they''d complain about their rights and such. If they weren''t, they oddly enough might appear fine with everything, as if in knowing they were caught there was some relief, in that whatever stress they were feeling before about getting caught was now somehow moot. Every now and then, somebody would come in and Wyatt would learn later on that he was guilty of something shocking, and every second they were in jail or in the interrogation room, they''d be tight-lipped and stiff, with an expression in their eyes of being a caged animal.


    Which was almost exactly how this guy looked. Wyatt scratched his cheek and looked quickly back at Jamille. "Yeah," he said. "The Captain wanted me to help out."


    "You''ve got to be shitting me..." Jamille said, before looking back and forth between the suspect and Wyatt. "Christ. Alright, listen Stacey," he said, leaning into the suspect''s ear. "This guy''s going to bring you into interrogation room 1, and when he does, I want you to sit at the desk and don''t move. If you cooperate, we''ll take the handcuffs off. Until then, you know your rights... right, my brother?"


    The suspect looked back at Jamille and nodded, and his cap almost fell off. Jamille walked past Wyatt over to the Captain''s room, leaving the two standing there in the middle of an almost-deserted office. The suspect looked right back at him. Wyatt wasn''t sure how to read the expression. It was one of strange evaluation, as though he were being checked out.


    "Uh..." Wyatt said. "This way."


    He nervously placed one arm behind the suspect, being careful not to contact him directly, and tentatively gestured towards the corridor where the interrogation rooms were. The suspect sucked in his teeth, and began walking, but slowly, and looking around the room as he did. Wyatt kept pace with him, and it felt awkward walking that slowly, but he was too nervous to actually say anything. When they got to the stairs, he noticed the suspect paying close attention to them, even trying to catch a glimpse upwards to see where they led to.


    "This way..." Wyatt said.


    "Yeah, I know," the suspect said, before giving a bit of a laugh. "You ain''t done this before, have you."


    Wyatt coughed, before laughing nervously. "There''s a first time for everything, right?"


    "I guess..." the suspect said, before stopping.


    "Why are you stopping?" Wyatt asked.


    The black man nodded with his head towards the door. "He said Interrogation Room 1, right?"


    Wyatt looked over and saw the sign saying "Interrogation -- 1". "Oh, right," he said, reaching for his keys.Love this novel? Read it on Royal Road to ensure the author gets credit.


    "You guys lock these rooms when nobody''s in them?" the suspect asked, incredulously. Wyatt saw that he was looking down to the end of the corridor.


    Wyatt paused, and realized he had no idea. He reached out for the doorknob and the door opened right up. "Oh..." he said, before guiding him inside. The suspect followed him in slowly.


    Wyatt looked around the unfamiliar space. Instantly he was surprised by the one-way glass at the back of the room -- it reflected his image so well he would have never guessed a good half-dozen people could watch the interrogation from behind it. Otherwise, the room was quite sparse, and unambiguous in purpose, since apart from the four chairs, the table, and a glaring overhead light, there was nothing there.


    Stacey, the suspect, walked over to the far side of the table.


    "Oh give me a sec," Wyatt said, about to help him pull back the chair.


    "I got it," he said, deftly using his leg to drag it back and rotate it out. He sat on the edge of the seat and looked around, before his eyes settled on Wyatt. "You gonna stand there?"


    "Uh... yes," he said.


    Stacey pursed his lips in an unimpressed manner, but said nothing. He looked thoughtful, glanced at Wyatt pensively, and then said, "On the way over, Detective Jamille said something about a cop and his sister getting attacked in Hyde Park."


    "He did?" Wyatt asked, and went flush.


    "Yeah," Stacey said, the traces of a smile appearing on his lips when he saw Wyatt''s expression. "Gotta wonder what this city is coming to, when even you pigs aren''t safe."


    "You just wait here," Wyatt said quickly, before turning around to head back into the hall. He quickly thought back to the suspect, and after closing the door behind him, he locked it. Heading back into the hall, he saw the Captain and Jamille were talking.


    "-operate the equipment?" Jamille asked.


    "You set it up," the Captain said, pointing at Jamille, "and have Milter watch it. Make sure there''s enough tape in there, and it''ll be fine."


    "Captain..." Jamille began, before sighing. "Alright, never mind. I figure if we leave him cuffed it won''t be a problem. We''d dismissed this guy as a possible gang member anyway. The guy was studying studying abroad for some such."


    "Whatever," the Captain said. "I didn''t have anything to do with the gangs prior to that sting, and I''m not interested in having anything to do with them now. Smith and Hargrove are already on their way back, and more guys from the night shift will be coming in around 9. I''m out of here." He began walking towards the door.


    "Don''t you want to supervi-" Jamille started.


    "I can''t even begin to tell you how uninterested I am in that," the Captain said, waving his arm dismissively. "Splitting them up and bringing this guy here... that whole thing was the ADA''s idea. As far as I''m concerned, we''re doing exactly what she wanted."


    There was a buzz at the front door, and Wyatt saw Petra''s figure standing there, with a finger on the side button. The Captain stopped and gestured towards the door. "Speak of the Devil, and the Devil appears," he said, before going up and letting her in. "You guys have fun now."


    "Thank you Captain," Petra said as she stepped in. "Could you-?"


    "Talk to them," the Captain said in a gruff voice, before stepping out into the cold. Petra, unoffended at having been cut off, said nothing, but turned and walked towards Jamille and Wyatt at the back of the room.


    "Detective Jamille, Officer Milter," Petra said, nodding as she said their names, as if things were as she expected them to be. "Where is the suspect?"


    "We brought Keane here, just like you asked," Jamille said. "Although all of us involved are still wondering why-"


    "I needed to isolate the others," Petra said, not breaking her pace as she walked right up to them. "It seemed easier to move one of him than five of them."


    Jamille waved his hands. "Whatever, it''s your show," he said. "I''ll get the recording equipment set up for Milter here."


    "That won''t be necessary," Petra said quickly, walking past them towards the corridor. "I''ve done it myself plenty of times. I''ll help officer Milter get ready. If you don''t mind, please uncuff Mr. Keane, make sure he''s seated, and place yourself by the door."


    "Uncuff him?" Jamille said. "Look, I''d feel a lot better about that if the other officers were around outside."


    "You can have your weapon at the ready, Detective," Petra said, turning around briefly. "I require... the suspect to be in a certain psychological state of mind when I make my entrance. If he isn''t in the gang, it won''t make a difference, but if he is, it''s vital that he has a false sense of security, and my entrance needs to be... an event. I don''t know an easier way to explain it."


    "Uh huh..." Jamille said, looking at her oddly.


    "If you can do as I ask, I''d appreciate it," she said, turning to go. "Also, don''t talk to him about anything until I get there. If he makes a fast move, you''ve got my authorization to shoot him."


    "Listen, Miss," Jamille began. "What you''re asking for, that''s not the way we like to do things-"


    Petra paused mid-step, before turning around and walking slowly back to them. "Detective Jamille, with all due respect, the reason we have an out-of-control gang problem in the north of this city is because of the fact that the police have had a way they like to do things for a long time, and that way has not been working. Until we start to take a hard look at those ways we like to do things, and having the courage to identify what''s wrong with those ways, and fixing them, then being the American city with the highest per capita volume of police officers won''t mean anything more than the fact that we get more speeders and jaywalkers than anybody else in the country, while the real criminals laugh at us from their safe havens. Do you understand?"


    Jamille''s mouth was hanging open, and Wyatt realized that the Crier, for all their effusive praise in their printed descriptions of her, hadn''t really done Petra justice.


    "Whatever, man," Jamille said. "He''s in Interrogation Room 1. I''ll be in there when you''re ready."


    "Thank you," Petra said, turning around. "Officer Milter?"


    Wyatt quickly hopped to it, and followed her down the side hallway that led to the recording rooms.


    Amongst the shadowy outlines of recording equipment, Petra worked quickly and silently. Wyatt''s eyes went back and forth between the her and the interrogation room, where Jamille stood by the door, his holstered gun in view, staring at the suspect but saying nothing.


    "There," she said, five minutes later. "That should be fine. It''s recording now. Just let it run." She knocked on the window, and Jamille waved in their direction. "Alright, Wyatt, here''s how it''s going to work. It''s recording right now. Detective Jamille and I are going to be taking turns questioning the suspect, but at one point Jamille is going to be called away. At that point, you need to do something very important for me." Petra looked him square in the eye. "You need to turn off the recording equipment."


    "Turn it off?" Wyatt said, in disbelief.


    "Yes," she said, pointing at a red button. "Just press right there. This is very, very important. Can I count on you to do that?"


    "Uh..." Wyatt said. "I don''t know..."


    "Officer, the things that will be said in there cannot be on the record. If they are on the record, then the investigation will be compromised. Nobody will have any knowledge of anything that is said between me and the suspect, except for you. Ethically, you will be bound to reveal anything you overhear, but a lot of it is going to be extremely vague, so I should be covered..." she paused for a second. "You might have heard that I give a pretty good interrogation, and that these interrogations are usually successful at getting results that officers using more conventional methods have been unable to achieve. Have you heard these things?"


    After a moment''s hesitation, staring out into the interrogation room at the suspect, Wyatt nodded. He felt almost bad for the guy.


    "Can I trust you to do this for me?" she asked, pointedly.