Getting Home

Part 8

SEAN

Sean parked the cruiser in one of the reserved spots in front of the police station—he wouldn't be long. He just needed to pick up his training officer Malloy, who had apparently hitched a ride back to the station with one of the other units.

Sean eyed the blanket on the passenger seat, then sighed.

Ava.

He strode through the front doors, nodding at two officers who passed him on their way out. There was the usual collection of riff-raff in the main lobby—miserable-looking, unhappy people waiting in cheap plastic seats, all from different walks of life. One of the homeless regulars was in attendance as well, babbling on, a word salad of randomness that made no sense.

Sean held his ID card up in front of the big, heavy door that led to the back. The lock clicked open, and he continued through into the hallway.

Cameras watched his every move.

Sean passed by the equipment room and "armory storage" on his way to the breakroom. Malloy came out, holding a small paper-cup of coffee.

"You owe me a nickel," Malloy said. His voice was raspy and grizzled. "Even though this coffee ain't worth shit."

Peter Malloy was an old veteran of the police force, scheduled to retire—in fact, this was his last month as a FTO with Sean before "gettin' a goddamn boat and gettin' the hell away from people." They'd already been riding together for five months.

"Pete, look," Sean said, not sure what to say. His face immediately started burning with shame and embarrassment.

So he just blurted it out.

"I'm sorry. I should be able to handle something like that by now, I just—"

Malloy waved his hand. "Don't worry about it, kid. Happens to the best of us."

"But I just left, Pete. What kind of cop runs away?"

Malloy's face was weathered and carved with deep wrinkles—he looked as serious as Sean had ever seen him. "A human one."

He started off down the hall without waiting for Sean.

For being an old guy, he still moved fast—Sean had to jog-walk to keep up. "If you say so, Pete. I just wanted you to know—"

Malloy stopped, his grizzled voice annoyed. "You want to know the best way to get over something? Stop thinking about it. Alright? Accept it and drop it. Move the fuck on."

Sean swallowed. "Okay, Pete. If you say so."

"I do—now get a grip and come on. We got something on the Henry Avenue investigation; if you're serious about making peace with yourself, there's no better way than getting the son of a bitch that did it."

They stopped in front of one of the digital forensics rooms. The placard next to the door read:

S. ADLER.

"Digital forensics for a guy that was literally turned inside out?" Sean said.

"We got some surveillance footage—security cams from the Filipino restaurant across the street," Malloy said, shouldering the door opening before waiting for a response.

The lab was a completely clean, white room. Computers and giant server towers were arranged in rows, running the full length of the room. Long work benches lined the walls, their surfaces covered in hard-drives, cell phones, laptops and wires.