“When did you know? That you wanted to be a cop?”
I consider the question while I stir my chili. Most people ask this and expect some heroic answer. Things like, my dad was a cop and I wanted to be just like him, or I watched a documentary and was inspired to make the world a better place. In my case, the truth is less dazzling than that.
“I was fourteen,” I say. “A cop showed up at our house because my parents were drunk and going at each other. The officer separated them, calmed everything down. He never raised his voice or threatened them. Then after, he talked to me for a good while. I was impressed by him.” I take a bite of chili, chew, swallow. “He was the first cop who ever asked me if I was okay. We had lots of them come by over the years, but he was the only one who ever seemed to notice me.”
Liam’s expression shifts. He doesn’t do the thing I most expect him to do, which is immediately flood the moment with sympathy or follow-up questions. He just holds my gaze and nods slowly.
“That’s a hell of a reason,” he says quietly.
I shrug like it doesn’t matter, even though the memory still has teeth. “You might be the only person I’ve told that story to.”
“Really?” He looks pleased. “I’m honored you trusted me with it.”
“Well, it was a long time ago. Water under the bridge,” I murmur. “What about you? Why are you a cop?”
“My dad was a cop,” he says, grimacing. “I know. I know. What a cliché. But truthfully, even if he hadn’t been, I’d have wanted to be a cop. Like you, I love helping people. Protecting them feels right.”
“I agree. A lot of people need protecting.”
He looks up his usual grin back in place. “My brother is a fireman. That’s one reason he bags on me so much.”
I frown. “I’ve never understood why firemen and cops seem to have a rivalry.”
“Oh, some cops bitch that firefighters get more kudos than them. They complain that firefighters have more downtime than police officers. But that’s only because firefighters have to live at the station. It’s also probably because cops have more resentment aimed at them than firefighters. Both cops and firefighters rush toward danger, the difference is that when we arrive on scene, people might end up in jail. Firefighters get to show up, play hero, and then go on their merry way.”
“I suppose that’s true,” I say. “But they’re risking their lives just the same as a cop.”
“Absolutely.” He nods, sipping his iced tea. “I don’t know about in Atlanta, but up here it’s all good humored ribbing. I pick on my brother for napping during his shift, and he accuses me of eating all the donuts in Golden Peak. We’re both just trying to help people, but firemen don’t arrest people and we do. There’s bound to be resentment from the public there because of that.”
We eat in comfortable silence for a while. I notice I’m not rushing to finish and leave, the way I usually do when I eat with other people. The quiet between us has a different quality than silence with anyone else. It doesn’t feel empty or awkward. It just feels easy. It kind of worries me. I don’t want to get too attached to Liam. I don’t even know if I’ll stay in Golden Peak. It’s possible it’ll be too quiet for me, who knows?
After lunch we catch a few minor calls before a bigger one comes in.
“Unit 12, we have a 10-16 at 118 Birch Street. Female caller reports her neighbor is yelling, sounds of breaking glass. Possible domestic.”
Liam taps his mic. “Unit 12 responding.” He meets my gaze. “That’s Randy Schultz’s place. I think I mentioned him yesterday as one of our repeat offenders.”
“I think you did, yeah.”
“Randy’s got a temper and a drinking problem.” Liam flips on the lights but not the siren. “We’ve arrested him many times, but his wife Donna keeps letting him come back home. The last few times we’ve been out there she’s downplayed what happened. When she does that it makes it tough to keep her safe.”
My stomach tightens. Domestics are the most dangerous calls we respond to, and the most frustrating. They also bring back a lot of unpleasant memories for me. “Do they have kids?”
“One. A boy named Tyler. He’s almost seven.”
“Damn.”
We pull onto Birch Street. It’s a modest neighborhood, small houses with chain-link fences and older trucks in the driveways. Number 118 is a tan ranch-style with an American flag hanging limp from the porch rail. The front door is closed, but even from the street I can hear raised voices. Male, aggressive. Something crashes inside.
Liam and I exchange a look. No words needed. We’ve only worked two days together but the communication is already there. He’ll take the lead since he knows the family. I’ll play backup.
We approach the front door. Liam knocks firmly. “Golden Peak Police. Open the door, please.”
The yelling inside stops abruptly. There’s a stretch of silence that makes my skin crawl. Then footsteps, heavy ones, and the door jerks open.
Randy Schultz is a big man, thick through the shoulders and chest, with a ruddy face and small bloodshot eyes. He’s human, mid-forties, wearing a flannel shirt with the sleeves pushed up. His knuckles are red.
“What do you want?” His breath reeks of whiskey.
