A single, beat-up police car was parked on the street corner of a seedy neighborhood in the outskirts of Albuquerque. In the driver's seat of the vehicle was a middle-aged Latino man with a bag of corn chips in one hand and an open magazine in the other. His partner, or more accurately, his responsibility, sat eagerly in the passenger's seat with wide brown eyes and a grin that tugged slightly to one side.
Flynn White was only twenty-five years old, but he was prepared to take care of any law-breaking should it arise in the ghettos of ABQ. After years of arduous workouts and dedication fueled by the memory of his Uncle Hank, the young man could finally walk and even run with little indication of his crippling condition. The man was born resilient, as one has to be when suffering with cerebral palsy, and through his exertion, the charming tilt of his mouth had become the sole remnant of his affliction. Now a new beat cop for the APD, Flynn knew that Hank would be proud. The boy was all too ready to make his first bust.
"So… uh… when does the excitement happen?" Flynn tentatively asked Officer Reyes, who had just shoved his mouth to capacity with Doritos. The older cop chewed, his thick mustache dancing above his undulating jawline, and he swallowed with a large gulp.
"Kid, you've been watching too many movies," the man replied after his chips were swallowed, and Flynn suddenly felt like he was in one of those cliché cop shows: the ones where the plucky new guy and the mature, experienced officer exchange witty banter whilst on the job. Sure, Flynn knew it was cliché and overdone, but their daily back-and-forth made being a beat cop feel cool as hell.
The digital clock glimmered red with the time, 7:36, and night began to fall outside of the car window. Officer Reyes rolled down the muddled glass and lit a cigarette while Flynn tried to remember if cops were technically allowed to smoke while on duty. The grey smoke rose gracefully into the purple sky, and the red digital six on the clock flickered into a glowing seven. The dodgy neighborhood was unusually peaceful.
"Hang on," Reyes spoke cautiously, diverting his attention from his Sport's Illustrated to a single porch light in the dark street. Flynn followed his gaze, which landed on a small house on the end of the empty street. After a few weeks of patrolling the neighborhood, Flynn knew that no one lived in that tiny little house. Nevertheless, an emaciated man with a far-too-large jacket was crouched on the doorstep. "There you go, White," Reyes chuckled, "There's your excitement. Why don't you check this guy out?"
"Just me?" Flynn asked, peering suspiciously at the figure on the stoop. Reyes let out another muffled laugh, eyes back on his magazine.
"Sure, kid," he replied, "He doesn't look too scary. And I'll be able to see you from here if there's trouble." Flynn nodded, creaking open the car window, stepping out of the seat with long legs, and straightening his badge on his chest. The young man walked with purpose towards the huddle drifter, forgetting his fear.
Flynn was only about ten feet away, but the man on the porch step hadn't even looked up. His fingers fumbled with what looked like the edges of a plastic bag under his enormous jacket. Now that he was close enough, Flynn took a proper look at the sad man on the porch. The guy was dressed as elderly hobos on that street would be, but the face that peaked over the large coat was quite young, although irreparably scarred. The man's bones protruded from his face and body, and his crystal blue eyes flickered with pain and bad memories. Flynn took a few hesitant steps forward, the grass crunching beneath his feet. Clearing his throat, he decided to speak to the young vagabond.
"May I help you, sir?" Flynn asked in his rehearsed, good-cop voice. At the sound of the officer's words, the man looked up from his lap with a flip of his overgrown, brownish-blond hair.
"What?" he replied unsteadily, with wide eyes that indicated he was caught off-guard, "Oh… uh, no I'm good, man." With that, the young man stared back into is lap, waiting for the cop to leave. Flynn only planted his feet further into the grass.
"Is this your house?" the young officer asked suspiciously, knowing very well that it wasn't. The guy on the porch recognized his tone, and as a response, gave Flynn his full attention for the first time.
"Look, guy," he began with pleading eyes, "I won't be long. I promise." The young cop stepped closer, aware of the desperation in the poor man's expression. He sighed, already exasperated but feeling a strange compassion for the man well up inside of him.
"What are you doing out here, anyway?" he asked delicately, peering around the dark, abandoned neighborhood, "I mean, it's a little suspicious to be sitting in front of a house that nobody owns at 8 o'clock. Or any time, for that matter."
"I know," the man admitted, staring at his hands as he continued, "I'm just… paying my respects. Someone I used to know lived here once." At the end of his sentence, he peered up with shiny eyes at the officer. Flynn felt a sadness grow in his chest, but he forced himself to ignore it. He had to get this loser off of the porch step one way or another, and kindheartedness was not the best way to handle that sort of situation.
"Yeah, well they don't live here anymore so…" he replied with his hands on his hips, "Time to go." Instead of rising, the man on the step cast an eye over Flynn, his gaze trailing down to the nametag on his uniform. The officer grew irritated, knowing exactly what was coming next. It's what always came next.
"Shit, you're not…?" the man on the step gasped, and Flynn groaned audibly. Riled, he finished the young man's thought for him.
"What? Heisenberg's son?" Flynn laughed harshly, weaving a hand through his thick brown hair, "Jesus Christ, eight years and people still won't stop reminding me." The huddled young man straightened up, realizing the officer's frustration.
"You don't understand," he responded defensively, "I knew Mr. White." Flynn laughed at the comment, believing that it was impossible for someone to truly know his sneaky, multisided dad. Judging by the way he addressed Flynn's late father, the kid on the doorstep was likely a former student.
"Yeah, I thought I knew him, too," the young cop grumbled, quickly pulling the man up by his arm, "All right pal, up you go."
"Hey!" shouted the young man with the oversized clothes, and Flynn heard the pattering of something dropping to the pavement at their feet. Peering down simultaneously, the two men stood a few feet apart with an innumerable amount of pills on the ground between them.
"What are those?" Flynn asked incredulously, realizing now what he had happened upon. The shorter man's eyes shifted, eventually falling to the ground. His body followed suit, and soon he was attempting to scoop the pills back into the opened ziplock bag from his jacket.
"They're nothing," he insisted, fumbling with the pills in his hands with a few dropping back to the pavement. Flynn bent down to the ground to meet him, raising a single tablet to eye level.
"This doesn't look like nothing," he said reproachfully, "This looks like a shit-ton of painkillers." Feeling guilty under the cop's intense gaze, the man rubbed his hands over his face and into is shaggy hair. Tears welled in his eyes and he sniffled, obviously trying to contain his emotions. Flynn guessed that containing his emotions was not exactly this man's strong suit.
"Look man, can't you just let me do this?" he pleaded in a broken voice, "After tonight, you won't have to deal with me in your beat ever again." Flynn inched closer to the man, who was trembling now.
"Because you'll be dead?" he questioned slightly more severely than he had intended, "I can't just leave a guy to kill himself; that's not how my job works." Despite the cop's reasoning, the man was still shaking his head.
"Officer White, man," he implored, and the respectful address sounded out of place to Flynn, "Everyone will be happier once I'm gone."
"Come on, that can't be true," the young cop attempted to reason, but his heart was already breaking for the wounded man. Still, the young guy shook his head with tears now trickling onto his scarred cheeks.
"No, it is," he answered in a now even and straightforward tone, seeming like he was convincing himself rather than the young officer, "Literally everyone would be better off. If my parents knew I was still alive, they'd want me dead, too." Flynn began to disagree, but he could see in those melancholy blue eyes that he was serious. After a few moments of quiet, the man made a final statement. "I'm doing the world a favor, Officer," he said with a heartbreaking smile, "I'm doing you a favor."
"Yeah? How would killing yourself be doing me a favor?" Flynn replied angrily, but the desperation was as clear in his own voice as it was in the other man's. Resting back on the front steps, the emaciated man wiped his face and stared the young cop directly in the eye.
"Because I'm Jesse Pinkman."