The station isn’t open to the public yet, and the silence is almost oppressive. No ringing phones. No chatter. Just the soft, low hum of the fluorescent lights overhead and the occasional click of Thomas’s keyboard behind the desk. Even the air feels still, as if the whole place is holding its breath.
It gives me way too much time to think.
To second-guess what I’m wearing. To wonder if I’m going to mess something up. To imagine Sergeant Rodriguez walking through those doors and realizing she made a mistake bringing me on.
I shift in my seat, straightening my posture like that’ll magically make me look calm and confident, even though my body has other plans, and take a slow, deliberate breath, glancing toward the AUTHORIZED PERSONNEL ONLY door, willing it to open.
Then, finally, the door hisses open, and a woman steps through.
She carries herself with quiet authority—tall, composed, and effortlessly self-assured. Her black uniform is crisp and clean, not a wrinkle in sight, and the gold badge pinned to her chest catches the harsh fluorescent light with a subtle gleam. Her dark hair is pulled back into a sleek bun, and her eyes, a deep brown nearly black, sweep the room with calm precision before landing on me.
“Raelynn Carson?” she asks as she approaches me, her voice steady but warmer than expected.
I jump to my feet a little too quickly, my bag nearly slipping from my lap and knocking against my knee. “Yes—hi,” I blurt, the word coming out too fast, too eager. I clear my throat and try to find a shred of composure.
She offers a friendly smile that instantly takes the edge off my nerves. “I’m Sergeant Sara Rodriguez,” she says. “Sorry to keep you waiting. We were just finalizing your clearance and access credentials. You’re all set now.”
“Thank you,” I reply quickly, adjusting the strap of my bag over my shoulder as she gestures for me to follow.
“Come on,” she says, holding the door open and guiding me through. “I’ll give you a quick walkthrough before we get you settled. Things move pretty fast here, but I think you’ll get the hang of it in no time. You ready?”
I give her a nervous smile. “As I’ll ever be.”
She glances back at me as the door clicks shut behind us, her smile pulling into something a little more relaxed and human. “That’s the spirit.”
Rodriguez leads me deeper into the station, her pace brisk but not rushed. The hallway buzzes with activity—staff moving in and out of rooms, voices exchanging clipped updates, and the low hum of police radios chattering in the background. The air smells faintly of coffee and printer toner, with a hint of something sterile beneath it all.
She glances back at me briefly. “I’ll give you a quick overview today, just so you’re familiar with the layout. You’ll get used to the flow soon enough.”
I nod.
We step into the Evidence Room first. It smells faintly of plastic, paper, and something metallic, like pennies and antiseptic. Metal shelving units stretch wall to wall, each one lined with carefully labeled boxes, sealed bags, and locked storage containers. Everything is marked, cataloged, and coded.A technician in latex gloves gives us a nod as he slides a folder into a cabinet.
“This is where all seized property, physical evidence, and documentation are logged and stored,” Rodriguez explains. “Chain of custody is taken very seriously—nothing moves in or out without proper documentation.”
I nod, doing my best to absorb everything while my eyes dart from shelf to shelf. There’s something eerie about seeing personal belongings reduced to sealed plastic bags and barcodes.
Next, we enter the Forensics Lab—a stark, white room that hums with quiet intensity. Sleek computers line one side, and lab equipment glints under the bright overhead lights. There’s a distinct chemical smell in the air, not unpleasant, but sterile. Two techs are hunched over a workstation, murmuring as they study something under a microscope.
“This is where we process fingerprints, DNA, trace fibers, and anything else our officers bring in,” Rodriguez says, keeping her voice low so we don’t interrupt. “We coordinate with the state lab for more complex testing, but most of the preliminary work is done here.”
It’s fascinating—and a little intimidating. I feel like if I so much as breathe too hard, I’ll mess up a crime scene.
From there, we move past the holding cells—Rodriguez doesn’t stop to linger, just gives a brief nod toward the area and keeps going—and down a corridor lined with bulletin boards, each one filled with memos, department updates, BOLOs, and mugshots. We briefly go over where ammunition and guns are stored and where officers gather the things they’ll need for a shift before finally reaching the room for roll call. It’s larger than I expected, with rows of plastic folding chairs and steel tables with wooden tops, arranged in a tight formation and awhiteboard at the front cluttered with shift schedules, recent case numbers, and scribbled notes from the graveyard shift.
“This is where every shift starts,” she says, stepping aside to let me take it in. “Briefings, assignments, case updates—it all happens here. You’ll check in here most mornings before heading off to your designated tasks. I don’t have any tasks for you today, so I’m having you do a ride-along.”
The energy in the room is quiet, expectant. Officers are beginning to filter in, some still sipping coffee, while others scan the board or chat in low voices. It’s clear this is the calm before the storm.
Rodriguez turns to me with a nod. “Any questions so far?”
I shake my head. “Not yet. Just… a lot to take in.”
Her lips curve into a comforting smile. “That’s normal. First days are always like that. Don’t worry, you’re doing fine.”
I return her smile, nerves flickering just beneath the surface.
“Have a seat. I’ll let you know who you’re riding with when I dismiss everyone,” she says, gesturing to one of the front tables.
