My entire career at 52 had been built on reading people. On knowing when to push and when to pull back. Well-timed questions or strategic rapport closed more cases than most officers managed with warrant stacks. Now I was stuck with a partner who believed police work was all about measuring knife angles and blood patterns.
Murphy steepled his fingers. He studied me with calm intensity, the kind reserved for officers who'd seen every type of ego. "Interesting perspective, considering his preliminary evaluation."
"What about it?" I was suddenly wary of the Inspector's tone. There was something underneath it I couldn't identify.
Murphy reached for the folder, flipped it open. "In his evaluation, he noted that your interview technique with the girlfriend revealed inconsistencies in the victim's story that would have been missed otherwise." A glance up. "He also acknowledged that your theory of self-defense has merit, pending further investigation."
I blinked. Speechless for a moment. He'd actually written that? After all his procedural protests and that argument where he'd practically pinned me to the patio wall?
"He... documented that?"
"Not in those exact words. His phrasing was considerably more technical. But the essence was there."
I leaned back. Thrown off-balance. Last night, my partner had been a wall of rigid opposition. This morning, he'd barely acknowledged me over instant coffee from the 7-Eleven downthe block. Now I was hearing he'd validated my approach in an official document?
"He has his methods. They may seem cold to you, but they're effective. Just as your techniques, while occasionally reckless, get results." Murphy closed the folder with a decisive snap. "The point of this program isn't to make you into the same officer. It's to create a functional unit that leverages both your strengths."
I ran a hand through my hair, trying to process the shift. "Sir, with all due respect, I don't think he's interested in leveraging anything except maybe my neck between his hands."
"And yet he credited your insight in his report." Murphy leaned forward. "Carlson, I know your reputation from 52. The golden boy. The charmer. The one who could talk his way into or out of anything." His face hardened slightly. "That approach has limits. Just as his by-the-book rigidity has limits."
The implied criticism stung more than I wanted to admit. "So what exactly do you want from me, Inspector?"
"I want you to stop seeing this assignment as punishment and start seeing it as an opportunity. He has skills you lack. You have qualities he needs. Figure out how to work together, or I'll have two promising careers to explain away to the brass."
I swallowed hard. The weight of his ultimatum sat in my chest. "Yes, sir."
"One more thing." Murphy picked up his glasses but didn't put them on. "He's been through experiences you don't understand yet. His... adherence to procedure isn't just stubbornness. Remember that."
Something in his tone made me pause. There was history there. Layers I couldn't see.
"I'll try, sir."
"Good." He nodded toward the door. "Now get back to work."
I left in a daze. My previous anger replaced by confusion and a strange, uncomfortable feeling that might have been shame. Thebullpen noise faded to a dull hum as I walked back. Murphy's words echoed in my head.
He's been through experiences you don't understand yet.
What experiences? What could possibly explain my new partner? The by-the-book attitude had seemed like the mark of a small-minded officer who'd never learned to think beyond procedure. But Murphy's tone suggested layers beneath. Complexity that made me feel like an ass for my assumptions.
I slumped into my chair. Stared at the empty workspace across from mine. Suddenly it all looked less like rigidity and more like discipline learned the hard way.
Why would someone need to be so controlled? What happens when control slips?
Last night flashed back. The fire in his gaze when I'd pushed him too far. The way his tone had dropped to that dangerous whisper. For a split second, something raw had surfaced. Then, just as quickly, he'd pulled it back. Set his jaw. Returned to procedure.
And then he'd gone and written an evaluation that acknowledged my insights.
I ran my fingers through my hair, frustrated by the contradiction. At 52, people had been straightforward. Ambitious. Sometimes cutthroat. But I'd always known where I stood. Here at 51 Division, nothing made sense. Especially not my silent, stone-faced roommate.
I spotted Reid passing by with an armful of folders. His forehead creased in concentration as he balanced the stack.
"Hey, Reid. Any idea where he disappeared to?"
Reid stopped. Shifted the load in his arms to get a better grip. Surprise widened his face, like I'd asked something unexpected.
"If he's not working or sleeping, he's probably at the gym down the street. Parliament Boxing Club. He goes there most days after shift."
