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This is part II of a two-part story. To read part one, click here.
The hairs on Archie’s arms come to attention, only the memory is not the cause. It’s a presence, the creak of floorboard right behind her, in the station where she has been the only presence in the last five hours.
Archie whips around in her chair, hand flying to the gun on her hip, but it never leaves her holster.
Archie’s feet collide with another set, belonging to the stout, graying Milton, dressed in a pair of gray sweatpants and a University of Bismark sweatshirt covered by a nylon jacket.
He laughs hard, his entire body moving with it as Archie curses him and tries to catch her speeding heart. “You should know better than to sneak up on an armed officer, Milton,” she says.
“You wouldn’t take me out. You already have enough paperwork,” he says. “No offense to Lin, but I think you’re spending too much time on this. You should be at home. It’s not good for you.”
“I could tell you the same,” she says and spins back to her desk. “Why are you here?”
“I wanted to look into something, but glad to know you’re concerned about my well-being,” Milton deadpans. “I do think you’re putting too much effort into this being targeted, though. Really. I think this was just a guy who wanted attention, or maybe was going to rob, and it went wrong.”
“I have to run down every possible lead,” she says without looking up at him.
“Better look into the aliens too then,” he chuckles as if any part of this was funny. He lays his hand on her shoulder and she can’t help but stiffen. “You know, I know this is very hard for you.” His voice softens with a compassion she has only heard him use for badly injured victims or people who’s loved ones weren’t returning home. “Maybe you should take some spousal leave.”
Archie lifts her head, telling herself she couldn’t have heard him right, but when that breathy chuckle hits her eardrums, she takes it as confirmation. Even now, even when his brother in arms is lying in a hospital bed fighting for his life, Milton can’t stop being a sexist asshole.
She gives Milton no inch of her gaze as the burn of anger rips her throat and spews from her mouth. “Fuck you, Milton.”
“Oh, ho, what was that, Sweltek?”
“You heard me. Fuck you. If you came to do your work, do it. Don’t talk to me.”
“Fine,” he grumbles, all humor gone, before adding under his breath, “Women can never take a joke.”
Archie swallows her retort, having lost enough time and focus on him, and returns to her list to examine another entry for anything she may have overlooked.
Chances are slim. This is the eighth time she has done this exercise and although it pains her to admit it, Milton may be right. When she makes it ten names down and has broken no new ground, Archie is nearly 100 percent positive that he is.
As the hour she allotted herself passes and she strikes another deal with herself to make it one more, the wheels of Milton’s chair squeak against the floor, and his coat rustles as he slips it back on. His time is up.
“You know, Sweltek, I wasn’t meaning to offend you,” Milton says and Archie scoffs at her computer screen. “Really, I wasn’t. What I should’ve said is that you and Hounsell are close and that it wouldn’t hurt you to take a break to process this. It’s a lot.” The sound of his footsteps gets louder, closer. “I remember, at my first department, I almost lost my partner, and it took me months to feel okay again. So no one would think less of you for taking a few days off.”
It’s kind, more personal and empathetic than Milton has ever been with her, but after years of unending commentary from him and the others, Archie has become calloused to it. More than that, she’s developed inches of scar tissue. “You all would. You all do. You’ve made it very clear how little you think of me,” she says, and she wishes she could’ve kept her voice from cracking. “Besides, even if you didn’t think less of me, I would.”
“Fine, fine,” Milton says, hands raised in forfeit as he walks towards the exit. “I know Hounsell would say the same thing. He’d be running down every avenue he could, combing through your list of enemies, hell, probably his own, too, you’ve worked together so long.” That chuckle again. “Anyways, I’d tell you to go home soon, but I’m sure you’d give me the bird for it.”
She does, but halfheartedly, because long after his footballs have cleared the airwaves, his words are echoing in her mind. He’d be running down every avenue he could, combing through your list of enemies, hell probably his own, too, you’ve worked together so long.
In her brainstorm, Archie had written down the names of people who Cole had pissed off both when they were partners and after she had gotten her promotion. But she hadn’t written down any of the enemies she had made when they were partners, those who even though they were her vendettas, Cole had come in contact with.
More than likely it would be another fruitless exercise.
More than likely it would just serve to waste more of her time.
But, in the grand scheme of things, what was another hour in a case she had already poured more than 100? If she was going to run down every possible lead, that may as well mean Milton’s inadvertent one, too.
Squinting at the blue light of the computer screen, Archie searches through five years of police reports on the department’s server. Some cases Archie remembers right away, like the woman who had threatened to hunt Archie after she arrested her for dealing meth, or the guy who had taken a baseball bat to his former best friend’s car after learning the friend had slept with his girlfriend. Others took the jogging of memory: car repossessions, threats to workplaces, bar brawls, and the like. She marks down the ones who fit the perp profile, but again, none strike her as correct, none give her that tingle at the base of her head she gets when the pieces of a case all start to fit together, but she knows she’ll check them anyways.
“One more stone to turn,” she says, as she scratches another name onto her list. For the fifth time tonight, she sweeps her hair into a haphazard bun that she is sure she will undo in another bout of frustration. As she does, her eyes catch on her bicep, and the shiny jagged line across it. Her hair slips from her hands like water through a sieve.
“Oh shit.”
Archie’s fingers fly to her keyboard, quickly keying in the name “Barton, William” in the search.
Since the trial five years ago, she hasn’t seen him. Her mind offered up his image enough without the reminder—thick eyebrows, pale gray eyes, dark brown hair that came to his shoulders. But even with that memory, seeing his photo in full color on the screen before sucks
the air out the room. Because he’s smiling the grin of someone who is pleased with himself, who got what he wanted.
William didn’t make it onto either of her lists. The incident hadn’t happened on Cole’s call, or when he and Archie were partners. It was after she had been promoted to detective, and she was called to William’s home to investigate a report of domestic violence. According to the report his ex-girlfriend had filed, William had choked her and beaten her on multiple occasions.
In retrospect, Archie shouldn’t have gone alone, but her new partner was out sick, and they were otherwise shorthanded. Although he opened the door and welcomed Archie in pleasantly enough, he had his hands around her throat within three minutes, the knife in her arm in less than four. Like she was for him, Cole was the first one to respond to her distress call and within a minute of arriving, Cole had William on his stomach in the front yard. And the whole time, as Archie tried to staunch the bleeding and remember how to breathe, William cursed at her, told she would pay, that they all would.
Was this it? Was this his horrible, cruel repayment?
Archie’s eyes scanned William’s profile, checking off similarities between him and their shooter. Height? Check. Hair? Check. Tattoo/birthmark? A Celtic symbol for “Warrior” starting below his neck and stretching across his breastbone.
His rap sheet was just as long as Archie remembered. Charges and convictions for theft, domestic violence, assault, weapons possession, evading law enforcement, and vandalism to property… by graffiti. Several stemmed from their arrest alone.
The cherry on the most terrifying sundae? According to his detention status, he was a free man as of two months ago.
Archie clapped her hands over her mouth, as if that could stop the bile that she felt creeping up her throat from exiting it. That spot at the base of her head tingled, the puzzle pieces falling into place to form a heartbreaking image of revenge and hate.
Had William planned this all? Painted the graffiti of the abused woman to attract police attention and also make a statement? Known that it was Cole’s ward, his shift? Waited until Cole appeared and took his mark?
He smiled like… like he had gotten what he wanted… almost like he had planned it.
And he had. If this is the case, if her intuition is correct, William had done exactly what he wanted. He probably is already on the run and they’re six days behind.
Archie grabs her phone. There’s paperwork she has to file, procedures to follow, but first, she has a call to make. She scrolls down her list until she finds the name she sought. Any other time, this number would’ve been one of the last on her list to call for her help, but she can’t do this without backup.
“Hello?” the voice asks warily.
“Milton, I need your help.”
This is part II of a two-part story. To read part one, click here.
The hairs on Archie’s arms come to attention, only the memory is not the cause. It’s a presence, the creak of floorboard right behind her, in the station where she has been the only presence in the last five hours.
Archie whips around in her chair, hand flying to the gun on her hip, but it never leaves her holster.
Archie’s feet collide with another set, belonging to the stout, graying Milton, dressed in a pair of gray sweatpants and a University of Bismark sweatshirt covered by a nylon jacket.
He laughs hard, his entire body moving with it as Archie curses him and tries to catch her speeding heart. “You should know better than to sneak up on an armed officer, Milton,” she says.
“You wouldn’t take me out. You already have enough paperwork,” he says. “No offense to Lin, but I think you’re spending too much time on this. You should be at home. It’s not good for you.”
“I could tell you the same,” she says and spins back to her desk. “Why are you here?”
“I wanted to look into something, but glad to know you’re concerned about my well-being,” Milton deadpans. “I do think you’re putting too much effort into this being targeted, though. Really. I think this was just a guy who wanted attention, or maybe was going to rob, and it went wrong.”
“I have to run down every possible lead,” she says without looking up at him.
“Better look into the aliens too then,” he chuckles as if any part of this was funny. He lays his hand on her shoulder and she can’t help but stiffen. “You know, I know this is very hard for you.” His voice softens with a compassion she has only heard him use for badly injured victims or people who’s loved ones weren’t returning home. “Maybe you should take some spousal leave.”
Archie lifts her head, telling herself she couldn’t have heard him right, but when that breathy chuckle hits her eardrums, she takes it as confirmation. Even now, even when his brother in arms is lying in a hospital bed fighting for his life, Milton can’t stop being a sexist asshole.
She gives Milton no inch of her gaze as the burn of anger rips her throat and spews from her mouth. “Fuck you, Milton.”
“Oh, ho, what was that, Sweltek?”
“You heard me. Fuck you. If you came to do your work, do it. Don’t talk to me.”
“Fine,” he grumbles, all humor gone, before adding under his breath, “Women can never take a joke.”
Archie swallows her retort, having lost enough time and focus on him, and returns to her list to examine another entry for anything she may have overlooked.
Chances are slim. This is the eighth time she has done this exercise and although it pains her to admit it, Milton may be right. When she makes it ten names down and has broken no new ground, Archie is nearly 100 percent positive that he is.
As the hour she allotted herself passes and she strikes another deal with herself to make it one more, the wheels of Milton’s chair squeak against the floor, and his coat rustles as he slips it back on. His time is up.
“You know, Sweltek, I wasn’t meaning to offend you,” Milton says and Archie scoffs at her computer screen. “Really, I wasn’t. What I should’ve said is that you and Hounsell are close and that it wouldn’t hurt you to take a break to process this. It’s a lot.” The sound of his footsteps gets louder, closer. “I remember, at my first department, I almost lost my partner, and it took me months to feel okay again. So no one would think less of you for taking a few days off.”
It’s kind, more personal and empathetic than Milton has ever been with her, but after years of unending commentary from him and the others, Archie has become calloused to it. More than that, she’s developed inches of scar tissue. “You all would. You all do. You’ve made it very clear how little you think of me,” she says, and she wishes she could’ve kept her voice from cracking. “Besides, even if you didn’t think less of me, I would.”
“Fine, fine,” Milton says, hands raised in forfeit as he walks towards the exit. “I know Hounsell would say the same thing. He’d be running down every avenue he could, combing through your list of enemies, hell, probably his own, too, you’ve worked together so long.” That chuckle again. “Anyways, I’d tell you to go home soon, but I’m sure you’d give me the bird for it.”
She does, but halfheartedly, because long after his footballs have cleared the airwaves, his words are echoing in her mind. He’d be running down every avenue he could, combing through your list of enemies, hell probably his own, too, you’ve worked together so long.
In her brainstorm, Archie had written down the names of people who Cole had pissed off both when they were partners and after she had gotten her promotion. But she hadn’t written down any of the enemies she had made when they were partners, those who even though they were her vendettas, Cole had come in contact with.
More than likely it would be another fruitless exercise.
More than likely it would just serve to waste more of her time.
But, in the grand scheme of things, what was another hour in a case she had already poured more than 100? If she was going to run down every possible lead, that may as well mean Milton’s inadvertent one, too.
Squinting at the blue light of the computer screen, Archie searches through five years of police reports on the department’s server. Some cases Archie remembers right away, like the woman who had threatened to hunt Archie after she arrested her for dealing meth, or the guy who had taken a baseball bat to his former best friend’s car after learning the friend had slept with his girlfriend. Others took the jogging of memory: car repossessions, threats to workplaces, bar brawls, and the like. She marks down the ones who fit the perp profile, but again, none strike her as correct, none give her that tingle at the base of her head she gets when the pieces of a case all start to fit together, but she knows she’ll check them anyways.
“One more stone to turn,” she says, as she scratches another name onto her list. For the fifth time tonight, she sweeps her hair into a haphazard bun that she is sure she will undo in another bout of frustration. As she does, her eyes catch on her bicep, and the shiny jagged line across it. Her hair slips from her hands like water through a sieve.
“Oh shit.”
Archie’s fingers fly to her keyboard, quickly keying in the name “Barton, William” in the search.
Since the trial five years ago, she hasn’t seen him. Her mind offered up his image enough without the reminder—thick eyebrows, pale gray eyes, dark brown hair that came to his shoulders. But even with that memory, seeing his photo in full color on the screen before sucks
the air out the room. Because he’s smiling the grin of someone who is pleased with himself, who got what he wanted.
William didn’t make it onto either of her lists. The incident hadn’t happened on Cole’s call, or when he and Archie were partners. It was after she had been promoted to detective, and she was called to William’s home to investigate a report of domestic violence. According to the report his ex-girlfriend had filed, William had choked her and beaten her on multiple occasions.
In retrospect, Archie shouldn’t have gone alone, but her new partner was out sick, and they were otherwise shorthanded. Although he opened the door and welcomed Archie in pleasantly enough, he had his hands around her throat within three minutes, the knife in her arm in less than four. Like she was for him, Cole was the first one to respond to her distress call and within a minute of arriving, Cole had William on his stomach in the front yard. And the whole time, as Archie tried to staunch the bleeding and remember how to breathe, William cursed at her, told she would pay, that they all would.
Was this it? Was this his horrible, cruel repayment?
Archie’s eyes scanned William’s profile, checking off similarities between him and their shooter. Height? Check. Hair? Check. Tattoo/birthmark? A Celtic symbol for “Warrior” starting below his neck and stretching across his breastbone.
His rap sheet was just as long as Archie remembered. Charges and convictions for theft, domestic violence, assault, weapons possession, evading law enforcement, and vandalism to property… by graffiti. Several stemmed from their arrest alone.
The cherry on the most terrifying sundae? According to his detention status, he was a free man as of two months ago.
Archie clapped her hands over her mouth, as if that could stop the bile that she felt creeping up her throat from exiting it. That spot at the base of her head tingled, the puzzle pieces falling into place to form a heartbreaking image of revenge and hate.
Had William planned this all? Painted the graffiti of the abused woman to attract police attention and also make a statement? Known that it was Cole’s ward, his shift? Waited until Cole appeared and took his mark?
He smiled like… like he had gotten what he wanted… almost like he had planned it.
And he had. If this is the case, if her intuition is correct, William had done exactly what he wanted. He probably is already on the run and they’re six days behind.
Archie grabs her phone. There’s paperwork she has to file, procedures to follow, but first, she has a call to make. She scrolls down her list until she finds the name she sought. Any other time, this number would’ve been one of the last on her list to call for her help, but she can’t do this without backup.
“Hello?” the voice asks warily.
“Milton, I need your help.”
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