Riley stuck her head in the keypad secured closet that served as evidence storage and armory, found her name tacked onto a cabinet in the locker room, and checked the clean, single-person bathroom. She’d already familiarized herself with the galley kitchen and the sludge it passed off as coffee.
Chief Ross surveyed the empty bullpen, hands propped on his belt. “Well, we can’t officially get you on payroll ‘till MTPOST sends over the approval of your lateral transfer, but there’s plenty of paperwork to get started. Your certifications are coming?”
“End-of-day for negotiation, mediation, and firearm qualifiers.”
The Montana Police Officer Standards and Training Council had already waived the basic training requirements for the state, allowing Riley to avoid another academy stint. Good thing, too. While the ALERA—American Law Enforcement Rebuilding Act—had improved every aspect of how law enforcement operated in the country, the psychological evaluations during training had nearly done her in the first go round. They were excellent at keeping the assholes and ingrates out, but hell on a woman trying to make her weird abilities useful.
“Are you planning on switching to Montana’s standard Glock 22?”
She brush over her side where her holster should be. “I’d be more comfortable keeping my Smith and Wesson.”
He shrugged. “Sure, paperwork needs to be filed with the Sheriffs Office.”
Another thing to get used to. Interactions with the Sheriff’s Office in Cincinnati had been limited to the annual charity softball game.
“Your probationary period and town council approval will take a few months. Plenty of time to decide whether to run screaming.”
Riley laughed like she was suppose to, but running wasn’t out of the question if she couldn’t keep a lid on her abilities. It’d been difficult in a large, chaotic precinct—how impossible would it be in Woodrun?
The front door opened, letting in a gust of damp August air and a plump, middle-aged woman. She flew over in a whirlwind of clacking beaded bracelets and powdery perfume. “You must be Riley!” She gathering her in for a hug. “Your grandmother was the sweetest, I miss her so much. She wasn’t in Woodrun too long, but she became a part of our family darn quick.”
Squeezed against her, Riley couldn’t do much more than eek out a, “Hi.”
Chief Ross sighed behind them. “Let her breathe, Anne.”
“Right, yes.” She pulled back, eyes sparking. “Please let me introduce myself. I’m Anne Fowler. I man the front desk and the non-emergency phone.”
“It’s lovely to meet you.”
“Oh, I can see Old Mooney in your smile. Those green eyes, too.” Anne sniffled, “I can just hear her saying ‘Little Red’ in that fabulous voice.”
Perfect. Everyone that knew her social-butterfly of a grandmother looked at her as Old Mooney’s Little Red. Not an ideal start to a professional career, but again, that implied permanence. There could still be running and screaming. She’d already established a less-than-formal relationship with Chief just-call-me-Ross—it’d be difficult to retroactively set boundaries now, so she expressed overly-familiar pleasantries, once again battling the ache of her grandmother’s memory.
Anne fluttered away to start her day and the Chief returned to his office, leaving Riley to set up her computer. She’d sorted out her email before the door opened again, admitting two men in navy police uniforms.
They each carried their own thermos of coffee. Lucky them.
The bearded, barrel-chested man shrugged out of his jacket and threw it on the desk opposite Riley’s. “Sergeant Andrew Logan. Call me Andy.”
She stood and firmly shook his hand. “Riley MacIntyre.” He had to be a lumberjack, maybe a retired wrestler turned lumberjack. She opened her mouth to ask.
“You even old enough to be a cop?” The other officer leaned against the side of his desk, arms folded.
“Yep.” Riley would eat her browning belt if he were more than five years her senior. He did one of those disapproving bottom-to-top glances that made her teeth grind. Brown leather boots, dark jeans, and a navy blue long-sleeve t-shirt were perfectly fine when she wouldn’t be leaving the office or interacting with the public. “It’s a pleasure to meet you...”
He set the olive branch on fire with a bored, “Officer Brand.”
Andy waved a giant paw of a hand in dismissal and plopped into his chair. Hinges squeaked in protest. “Ignore Kellen. He’s pissed his buddy left for California.”
Kellen also retreated behind his desk—the farthest in the bullpen from Riley’s.
If the chilly reception really was due to her replacing his friend on the force, had she voiced, ‘My coworkers are pissed I left, too,’ she’d expect a retort along the lines of ‘then, go back.’
Andy leaned around his monitor to eye her. “What’d they call you in the big city?”
“Red.”
Brand’s snort echoed around the room.
“Original, I know.” To herself, she muttered, “I will not punch my new coworker.”
Andy coughed in a way that implied Riley hadn’t been quiet enough. “That fits, what with your hair and all,” he tried. “Never seen a prettier color.”
The nickname sucked for most gingers. All her O’Mooney cousins hated it. It’d grown on her over the years, and was probably better than the shit she could have ended up with as a rookie. From the moment Old Mooney first held her in the hospital, she’s cooed ‘rowan,’ Irish for ‘little redhead,’ at Riley. Cute, if she’d meant the hair on her head—a dark, bloody shade that had most people asking for her colorist’s phone number—but no, it was for the all-over beet-red she’d turned screaming her lungs out, and her traitor parents penned it down as her middle name. She wouldn’t be sharing that with Kellen in the room, however. He might find it funny enough to snigger. They say laughter increases lifespan.
The front door clanged open again. The cop who strode into the bullpen, cell phone pressed to his ear, looked like a younger, bulkier version of Andy. His name plate spelled Logan, same as Andy’s, minus the sergeant designation. No wonder they were big on first names.
Riley wanted to ask just what in the hell kind of water they drank, but the furrowed brow and thin-lipped concern he’d carried in with him kept her quiet.
“I think we’ve caught a homicide,” the larger Logan announced.
Here’s where the light revisionist history I mentioned in “Start Here” comes in. Too obscure? Too heavy-handed? Let me know in the comments! Thanks for reading!
Audio and behind-the-scenes coming soon!
Obligatory Legal Stuff:
This chapter is a work of fiction. Any names, characters, places, and incidences are the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously and any resemblance to actual persons, locals, and events are coincidental.
No generative AI used. No AI training allowed.
All rights reserved.
Chapter Title Image created in Canva. Canva Pro image used in background.
Loving this.