Unsung Hero

June 19th, 1530 Hours

Faulkner is so crazy these days, things have gotten to the point where I have to solve a murder to feel normal. Well, not normal, per se, but routine. It's nice to be a regular flatfoot for a couple hours. But then you get another complaint about the superheroes, and the farce comes crashing down. All these idiots with tragic back stories—the lab rat, the orphan, the grieving parent or spouse—trying to shove the results of their suffering down Faulkner's throat. The city's choking. People won't even go outside anymore, not unless they have a good reason. You get too many wannabe heroes trying to do the "right thing," and everyone gets hurt.

Somehow, though—even with all these super freaks running around—Faulkner still sees its fair share of serial killers. No hero is dedicated enough to follow 'em all over the city for two weeks. I guess I should be grateful. If the supers weren't lazy and kind of stupid, I'd probably be out of a job. I mean, radar is cool, but it doesn't really hold a candle to x-ray vision.

There's this nice lady, a widow, who comes in weekly to check on a murder case we've been trying to crack for a while now. She either has a lot of faith in me, or really likes the donuts we put out. Maybe both. Today I actually have an update for her, but when we sit down across from each other at my desk, I'm not really in the mood to talk about the Mole.  She's one of two people who have never made my blood pressure spike, so I don't like wasting my time with her talking about someone who does. I know it's part of the job, and all, but I never get to hold a regular conversation in this uniform.

"What's new with you, Lacey?" I ask, specifically avoiding "How are you?" You'd have to be pretty stupid to ask a new widow how she is. Some of the guys don't pay attention and get wrapped up in the most awkward conversation of their lives.

"Not much. Same old," Lacey says, fidgeting. She brushes some hair behind her ear and clears her throat. "How about you?"

"We have a lead." So much for a friendly chat. Right down to business today. "I wanted to tell you before we released anything to the press, 'cause they're probably gonna screw it up. Let's face it."

"Probably gonna screw it up?" Lacey asks, raising an eyebrow.

"Definitely gonna screw it up." There are a few things Faulkner doesn't have that most cities do—don't even get me started on the "library"—and good journalism is one of them. We have plenty of tabloids. What we don't have are sane people running the papers. "Here's the police report. Go ahead and give me a call when you're finished, and I'll schedule a press conference."

Lacey picks up the report and starts flipping through, looking progressively more confused as the pages go by. At the end, she puts the stack of paper down and says, "Thirty pages. That's some lead."

"It's a little slow at the beginning, but toward the middle it gets better." I flip to page fifteen and point at the last paragraph. "Idiot tried to run out the door with four shovels. The clerk called us, but the Mole was gone before we could get there. Now we have a description, though."

"He got away again?"

"Yeah, so if you see a guy walkin' around with two brand-spanking-new shovels and blue dye all over his shirt, you pick up the phone." When I give the report back to Lacey, she's laughing her head off.  After a few minutes, she starts to calm down and wipe the tears from her eyes.

"You know how to make me laugh, Cody."

For a second, I just sit there trying to figure out what was so funny.  Nothing makes sense, and the silence is getting awkward, so I smile and spit out, "Yeah." 

Yeah.  That was the best I could come up with.  I'm ready to run out of the room when the radio chirps, thankfully, before I can say anything else dumb.  "Bank robbery in progress on Fourth Avenue.  All nearby officers, please respond. Suspect is reported wearing a black hoodie."