Chapter 7
Deep within the subterranean levels of the Third Precinct, the air smelled of stale coffee, industrial floor wax, and simmering tension. Officer Carl Redding sat at his metal desk in the cramped squad room, staring blankly at a notification blinking furiously on his department-issued terminal. Administrative Notice: Internal Affairs Review Initiated. Badge 316.
Across the aisle, veteran patrol partner Sergeant Tom Miller leaned over his partition, a toothpick dangling from the corner of his mouth. “Saw the flag on your terminal, Carl. What’s this about a civilian complaint from Wabash?”
“It’s that corporate suit,” Redding muttered, his knuckles whitening as he gripped the edge of the metal desk. “Some guy named Vance. Thinks he can walk around downtown acting like he owns the pavement. I taught him some respect, and now he’s crying to IA like a privileged child.”
Miller frowned, spitting the toothpick into a styrofoam cup. “You hit him?”
“It was a scuffle. Things escalated,” Redding snapped defensively. “You know how these downtown elites treat us. They look down their noses at every uniform on the street. If we don’t show them who’s in charge, we lose control of the district entirely.”
“Carl, IA doesn't care about your philosophy on street control,” Miller warned, lowering his voice. “They care about optics and paper trails. And word around the station is that this particular civilian isn't just some random commuter. Arthur Vance is managing partner of Vance Capital. He has deep pockets, influential contacts, and apparently, an audio-visual recording of the entire exchange.”
Redding went rigid. The bravado that usually fueled his daily patrols suddenly felt fragile, evaporating under the cold realization of institutional exposure. “A recording? There were no cameras on that specific corner.”
“Guess again,” Miller said grimly. “Internal Affairs just requested your shift logs, GPS telemetry, and dispatch records for the past month. Detective Marcus Vance is running the file. You know Marcus—he doesn’t bury things for friends.”
May you like
Redding pushed his chair back violently, the metal legs screeching against the linoleum floor. He stood up, pacing between the tight rows of desks. The walls of the precinct, usually a sanctuary of blue solidarity, suddenly felt like closing trapdoors. For twelve years, he had worn badge 316 as a shield against accountability, believing that the uniform granted him immunity from the consequences of his own growing rage. Now, staring down the barrel of an internal investigation, he realized that the very system he relied on might sacrifice him to protect its own public image.
“I’m not going down for doing my job,” Redding whispered fiercely, his eyes darting toward the exit. “Not over some rich guy with a grudge.”
