Damaged Goods (Don't Call Me Hero Book 2) (5 page)

A fighter jet flies overhead and we all stop to stare. It moves too quickly for me to tell whom it belongs to. It could be one of ours, or maybe the Russians.

“We’re actually here,” the soldier standing beside me breathes. “Shit.”  Her name is Rebecca. We were at Parris Island together, but we weren’t assigned to the same fireteam. They’ve got to spread us females around in the company.

“St. Cloud!” The leader of my squadron, Lance Corporal Nelson, yells at me. I know it’s me he’s hollering at because we’re both from Minnesota. He’d given me the nickname during transport from the States.

He beckons to me with a gloved hand. “Get over here.”

I fall out of line and jog over to his side. My boots are too big for my feet. The material feels stiff, and my feet are sweating even though I doused them in a generous layer of baby powder that morning.

“Yes, sir?”

“This isn’t Minnesota, Marine,” he tells me.

“I know that, sir.” I’m not sure where this conversation is headed.

“Then stop making eye contact and smiling at the locals.”

My jaw goes lax. “I-I’m sorry, sir. I didn’t realize I was doing that.”

“I know—which is why I’m telling you to knock it off.” He laughs, but not unkindly. “It took me a while when I was first deployed to turn off the Minnesota Nice, too. Your mama would be proud, but it makes you look fucking green. Act like you belong here and the locals will think you do.”

“Yes, sir,” I crisply nod.

“Now get back into line,” he barks.

+ + +

My uniform shirt was laid out on a bench in the women’s locker room of the Minneapolis Fourth Precinct. It looked like a disintegrated person. The locker room was empty, but that wasn’t unusual. There were very few female cops in my precinct and even fewer beat cops that hadn’t been assigned to special assignment. I stared at the short-sleeve light blue top with its double-breasted pockets. My silver nametag was in place over the right-breast pocket, but above the left-side pocket was the faded outline of where my badge would go.

My cell phone vibrated in my metal locker, pulling my attention away from my incomplete uniform. It was a text from Julia:
Do your best
, the message read.

There were no pet names or words of endearment in the message, but it still brought a smile to my face to know that she was thinking about me on my first day back.

I pulled my boots, undershirt, and the dark navy uniform pants out of my duffle bag. We were allowed to wear our uniforms to and from our residences, but I’d always preferred getting dressed at the precinct. My process of getting ready for work was probably different than most other peoples’—people who didn’t carry a gun and wear a bulletproof vest for a living. In many ways, I stopped being me on the drive from my apartment to the police station—or at least I became a different version of myself: quieter, more stern and contemplative, as I mentally readied myself for whatever that day’s patrol might bring.

It had been like that in Afghanistan, too. You could always tell the difference between the guys who’d just come back from an assignment and those who were getting ready to go out. Velcroing my bulletproof vest, buttoning up my police shirt, double-knotting the laces on my boots—it was an important ritual. The gun belt made the transformation complete.

I began the short walk to morning roll call, which took place in a room connected to the men’s locker room. I hated the way my new gun leather creaked with each step. I’d just gotten my old utility belt to where I liked it when I’d taken the voluntary leave of absence. Now I was starting over in more ways than one.

I knocked loudly on the outer door of the men’s locker room and waited for the All Clear signal. After nearly a decade in the homosocial world of the military, I had no problem walking through a room full of half-dressed men, but my first time in this locker room after being assigned to the Fourth Precinct had sent more than a few guys leaping into their lockers or reaching for the closest towel.

My earliest memories of being in that kind of environment was playing youth organized hockey in St. Cloud. I’d been the only girl on the team for years; my gender hadn’t mattered though as long as I could keep up with, and in many cases, surpassed the skating and stick-handling skills of my male teammates. When another girl wanted to join the team years later, I could vividly recall the locker room conversation: “We don’t want a girl on the team,” had come the collective sneer.

At the time I remembered being proud, but also confused. They didn’t consider me to be a girl, but I wasn’t exactly like them either. I was, perhaps, without gender. Or maybe I was simply Cassidy. It had been like that in the Marines, too. I had been a soldier, not a woman. With body armor on, covered in dust and dirt, we all looked the same.  

I knocked again on the locker room door, but when nothing happened, I tentatively pushed the door open. “Ready or not,” I warned, “here I come.”

My boots clunked hollowly in the echoing corridor of the changing room. I could hear the slow, punctuated drip of a leaky shower faucet, but no other noises. The exaggerated silence made me instantly suspicious. Few places were as boisterous as the men’s locker room of a city police district, and yet I hadn’t heard or seen anyone since my arrival. Instinctively, my palms rested on the reassuring presence of my gun-less belt. I wasn’t afraid—I wasn’t in danger—but I knew this was a setup. I could only imagine what kind of elaborate prank my colleagues had arranged for me.

Another set of doors brought me to roll call, a room crowded with long wooden tables. A podium and whiteboard held court at the front of the room. It was an inner sanctuary where only uniformed officers were allowed. At the beginning of each new shift, the Inspector debriefed us about what had occurred during the previous shift or disseminated information coming from the office of the Chief of Police.

More than a dozen cops in various levels of uniform milled around, but no one noticed my entrance. Nearly everyone had their back to the door as they crowded around a buffet of donuts. A makeshift banner had been strung across the whiteboard at the front of the room:
Welcome Back, Miller!

I made eventual eye contact first with my friend, Brent. We’d been in the academy together and had been assigned to the same precinct after graduation.

“Shit.” His mouth was full of cake donut. “Uh … surprise?”

Like a stack of slow-falling dominos, the other cops in the room finally noticed my presence. Never trust a bunch of cops around innocent donuts. Someone’s bound to get hurt.

“Those donuts never had a chance,” I cracked.

Brent lowered his shoulder and rushed me like a linebacker bearing down on a quarterback. An uncharacteristically high-pitched squeak escaped my mouth when his shoulder made contact with my stomach, and I found myself being lifted in the air. A collective of voices, all cheering for me, filled my ears and well-meaning thumps on my back and shoulders welcomed me back into the fold.

Inspector Garnett’s arrival cut short our revelry. “That’s enough, everybody,” he projected above the noise. He took his place behind the podium. “Time to protect and serve.”

Inspector Garnett was a small man with a serious face. In my days with the department, I’d never seen him smile. He carried himself with a quiet, solemn leadership that wasn’t showy or aggressive, yet I didn’t consider him to be soft or a pushover. I knew because of Rich’s connection to Internal Affairs that few issues ever filtered over to his office from our precinct. Garnett liked to keep things in-office and deal with his officers himself rather than passing us off to Internal Affairs. It was old school and probably infuriated our police union, but I had a lot of respect for the man.

Brent dropped me to my feet, and everyone clambered for the closest seat like a round of musical chairs. With gun belts and bulletproof vests on, we took up more space than usual. Open seating quickly ran out, leaving one cop whom I didn’t recognize still on his feet. He stood awkwardly in his freshly pressed uniform and bright brass buttons. I could tell from the crispness of his clothes and the shine on his black boots that he was new. I felt sorry for the kid, but not sorry enough to give up my spot.

“Miller,” the Inspector barked out. “Where are you?”

I sat up straighter in my seat and raised my hand halfway. “Right here, sir.”

Our eyes met—mine emerald and bright, and his blue and weary. “Welcome back,” he grunted. “Mendez,” he clipped, “Miller will be joining you in Sector Three.”

My head swiveled in the direction to which the Inspector had spoken, but I couldn’t identify which of the other uniformed officers was going to be my new partner and ultimately the person I’d have to impress to get off of probation.

My focus returned to the diminutive man standing at the front of the room as Inspector Garnett began our morning debriefing. I wanted to be alert and attentive, but Brent was determined to distract me. His big foot clunked again mine almost audibly, and he repeatedly nudged his kneecap into the side of my polyester thigh. Whenever Garnett glanced in our direction, Brent snapped to attention like a middle schooler not wanting to get called out in class.

Inspector Garnett wrapped up the brief meeting by reciting the departmental motto: To Protect with Courage, To Serve with Compassion. The shuffle of bodies, the jangling of key rings, and the creak of leather gun belts ushered the Inspector out of the room.

“Dude, are you trying to get me in trouble?” I hissed at Brent as we stood up. “It’s only my first day back.”

“Garnett didn’t notice,” Brent insisted.

“He didn’t call you out,” I qualified, “but I can assure you he noticed.” I was hardly Teacher’s Pet, but I felt a certain amount of pressure to be a model officer until I passed my review.

“Sorry about Mendez.”

“What? Why?”

“He’s a transfer from First Precinct, and I hear he’s a real asshole. I don’t know how he got assigned FTO.”

“Don’t tell me that,” I sourly protested. “It’s bad enough I’ve got to go through the whole probation period again.”

“I suppose it could be worse; Garnett could have partnered you with Angie.”

“Angie?
Our
Angie’s an FTO?”

“Yeah. She started a few weeks ago. I hear her Probie can’t tell his nightstick from his …” Brent trailed off and looked uncharacteristically flustered. A deep red blush colored his fair Scandinavian features.

“From his what?” I smirked. I had a good idea where this analogy was headed, but I liked to see my Viking friend squirm.

“Miller.”

I snapped my head away from Brent’s boyish blushing at the call of my name. Unlike most of my male counterparts, the man who spoke to me was clean-shaven. His thick black hair was carefully parted on one side and a heavy use of hair product had it cemented into place like a helmet. He wasn’t overly tall or short and his medium build filled out his sky blue shirt. He wore his bulletproof vest over his uniform. I preferred mine beneath my shirt. The effect made my torso boxy and genderless, but I preferred that look while on duty. Having a visible vest made me feel like a moving target; I’d been shot at enough in my life.

“Time to hit the road,” the man said to me.

“Mendez?” I muttered for Brent’s ears only. He confirmed my educated guess with a short bob of his head.

I clapped my friend on his beefy shoulder. “See you later, buddy. Have a good day out there.”

The first thing I noticed about my new partner as we hoofed it from roll call to the garage was his arm. His left arm was perceptibly tanner than his right. I tried to gauge his mood on the way to our assigned squad car. He didn’t speak to me, and based solely on his facial features, I couldn’t tell how he felt about being assigned to me. Male officers typically wanted another male as their partner, preferably one physically tougher than themselves who’d have their back if a routine stop turned into a physical altercation. The same went for female cops though. If given the option, they usually chose a male partner as backup. I was guilty of the same mindset. Maybe it all went back to that hockey locker room in St. Cloud:
We don’t want a girl on the team.

Mendez walked directly for the driver side door of our squad car, jangling the car keys in one hand. I didn’t mind not driving, but it struck me as odd that he wouldn’t at least have offered. Rookies didn’t often get behind the wheel of a patrol car until after their first review, and sometimes not until the final stage of the probation period, but I was no rookie.

Mendez grabbed the in-car radio receiver. “Central, this is 432.”

In Embarrass there had only been three officers: Chief Hart, David Addams, and myself. Our radio call signals had been individual, E-1, E-2, and E-3 respectively. In a department the size of MPD, that system obviously wouldn’t work. The three numbers in our call signal were attached to the car and indicated the precinct, sector, and sequence within the sector.

“Go ahead, 432,” came a voice over the radio.

“Be advised, 432 is 10-18.”

Butterflies jumped around in my stomach. We were officially in-service and ready for assignment.

Mendez turned the key in the ignition and the engine roared to life. I locked my rifle into its front seat holster and pulled my seatbelt across my vested chest. “So what’s your story, Mendez?” I asked conversationally.