Episode 1: The First Turnabout

Episode 1–1: The First Clue

August 3, 8:00 AM. Police Department. Pam's Desk.

The buzz of the department was familiar to Pam. If she wasn't careful, she would imagine she was back in New York. The hurried steps of officers and the tapping of the keyboards were a strange sort of symphony that only an office worker could love. The commands of higher detectives hurt the worst. She could still hear Kent doing the same thing. She just wanted to sit there, pretending she was back home, before things went bad. She did, a smile creeping onto her face…until Gumshoe decided to open his big mouth. Pam involuntarily flinched as the large man laughed behind her. He was talking to some young security girl, equally as loud. Pam did her best to drown them out as she tapped on her keyboard, entering in another mountain of dull information.

Pam had thought the first day would be the worst, but she couldn't have been more wrong. The paperwork never seemed to end. Her hands kept cramping from the near constant typing. It got worse and worse the longer she had to sit in her small chair behind Gumshoe, who didn't seem to know the definition of personal space. That, combined with the fact that Meekins seemed to pop in at the most inopportune of times, made every day at the department a slog to get through.

Pam felt her eye twitch as Gumshoe started to laugh more. He leaned back in his seat, his back hitting Pam's chair and squishing her against her desk. She slowed her typing, viciously hitting the keys until she had entered in the information of one of the many murder victims into the database. Finally, after what seemed like forever, Gumshoe scooted his seat forward. Pam immediately stood, quickly escaping to the breakroom. She heard Gumshoe shout out an apology, but she ignored him, taking refuge in the small room.

The breakroom wasn't much, but it did it's job. The air always smelled like discount coffee. There was a poster of a cat pinned on the wall, dangling from a tree branch with the words 'Hang in there!' scrawled at the bottom. A bulletin board had announcements pinned on them. A piece of paper with tearable ends announced that Meekins would be holding a birthday party for himself, and to RSVP with the loud officer for more details. None of the paper slips had been torn away.

Pam poured some of the coffee into one of the many mugs in the cabinet, adding a fair amount of sugar so that it would even be drinkable. The coffee wasn't much better than it had been in New York. Pam guessed that all police departments must use the same cheap, bitter brand. She turned to the door, letting out a defeated sigh.

How much longer am I going to be on desk duty? I have to start looking into Kent's case, but if I'm stuck behind Gumshoe all day, then I'm never going to get anywhere. At this point, I might as well have stayed in New York…

"Well, it sounds like someone has been struck with a bit of Western Fever. Mind tellin' me what's wrong, pardner?"

Pam jumped, almost dropping her mug. It took a lot to spook Pam; she prided herself on being alert. She wasn't sure how she had missed the man sitting in the corner of the room. He wore full cowboy get-up, including the hat and the poncho-like shirt. He was shaving his stubble with a sharp, grey knife. The hairs were getting all over the table. Pam made a mental note to never eat in the breakroom. He tipped his cowboy hat back, revealing a calm smirk and warm brown eyes.

Remembering he was waiting for an answer, Pam blinked a few times and tried to focus.

"Sorry?" she asked, perfectly confused as to why someone from the middle of Texas was in the breakroom. The man took a sip of his own drink, out of a canteen no less, before speaking.

"You don't make a sigh like that unless you have a real problem, miss. For me, it's Western Fever. I can't help but be depressed when I'm not riding my steed on those great open plains. Why don't you spill your troubles at my saloon?" He gestured to the seat in front of him. Pam probably should have just walked back to her desk, but considering Gumshoe was still hogging her space…well, the decision was easier than first thought. She sat down on the other side of the break table, sipping her coffee in an attempt to buy time.

She studied the man, looking past his strange clothes. His eyes seemed kind, but there was a hard edge to them as he looked at her. It seemed he was studying her as well. Pam thought back to what Kent had taught her, shifting her eyes to the man's hands. 'You can always see someone's hard kept secrets by looking at the state of their hands'. The cowboy's hands were recently washed, water shining on his fingertips. His fingernails were chipped, like hers, and the skin around his nails were rubbed raw. He had a short beard too, small hairs barely poking out of his chin in uneven bursts. He looked a lot like her, actually. Like someone who cared about their appearance but had been letting themselves go recently. She took a few more sips before setting her mug down.

"I don't believe we've met." The statement was really just so that she could hear him talk more. For some reason, this guy was particularly hard to read. Pam was struggling to hide her frustration. I must be more out of practice than I thought…The man smirked again and nodded.

"I've heard all about the new doggie causin' a stir round here." He took another swig of his drink. Pam raised an eyebrow as he continued. "You don't usually hear about detectives as young as you are out here in the West."

"24 isn't so young," she said with a shrug. "You seem to know a lot about me, though. Did you manage to catch my name in all the gossip?"

"Well, the detective has some spunk!" He laughed before holding out his hand. "The news round here is that you are one Pamola Wright. Names a bit funny, I will admit."

Pam fought down a smile of her own, face blank as she shook the man's hand. "You should hear my brother's. And you are?"

"Jake Marshall, patrol officer. I really should be back at my station, but staring at screens really ain't my thing."

That was an interesting tidbit. Pam leaned forward on the table, coffee momentarily forgotten.

"Screens?"

"I watch over the evidence lockers. Not the most exciting of jobs." Jake sighed, his hat falling over his eyes. "But I suppose you take what you can get, out here in the wild west…"

We're in the middle of L.A., what part of that constitutes as the wild west? She pushed the question aside, intent on pushing this little lead a bit further. Getting on the good side of the evidence room guard could prove useful for her investigation.

"How long have you been a patrol officer for?" Jake tilted his head down so that she couldn't see his eyes. He put his knife away, nicking his finger as he struggled to get it back in its tiny sheath.

"Two years. Two long, hard years." He wrapped a napkin around his finger, voice quiet. Pam leaned forward, struggling to hear him over the chatter outside the breakroom.

"It sounds like you've had it tough," she said. Marshall laughed.

"No doubt about that, little lady. The wind's cold out in the desert, and I've had to travel that hard road more than I'd like to admit." He shook his head, looking back up. His injured finger was pointed at her. "No body throws a bone to patrol officers. They treat us almost as bad as they treat detectives. I would know."

Pam felt a bead of sweat roll down her face. "Er…I guess I can't argue with that. My paycheck will be another thing that won't change, then…Wait, what do you mean 'you know'?"

"I used to be a detective." Jake shined the star on his jacket, even though it was already shiny enough to blind someone. "Got demoted to patrol officer. Guess I didn't do my job good enough…" Noticing her concern, he gave Pam a slap on the arm. "But don't worry! We need good people under our belt. How else would we protect the last frontier of the world?"

"Sure…" Pam tapped her nails against her mug. He was demoted from detective two years ago…that's the same time that Kent left for New York. She supposed it wouldn't hurt to ask some questions, so long as she was careful. Her foot tapped against the tile floor, heart speeding up. "So, I'm guessing you know I came from the NYPD."

"Ugh, the city." Jake spat into the trash can, shaking in disgust. "Can't stand the sight of those tall, alien buildings. How are you supposed to enjoy the beauty of a golden sunset, or the sand beneath your boots?"

Pam cleared her throat. "Actually, I was wondering if you knew someone who worked—eh, works there. His name's Kentbé. He said something about working in L.A. before he transferred."

Pam watched as Jake's face changed from disgust to surprise to guarded. Jake took a sip out of his canteen, staring at Pam with a gleam in his eyes. "I remember him. Now there's a real sheriff. He always ran into trouble, risking everyone's neck at the scent of a fresh case." Jake leaned forward. His breath smelled like apple juice, not the alcohol she expected. "You know, you act a lot like him, with the tricky questions and sneaky looks. Where you study my hands earlier, pardner, or was that just my imagination?"

Pam sat up straight, foot stopping it's frantic dance under the table. She bit the inside of her cheek. Jake had gotten more and more mysterious instead of getting easier to read. She had to be careful. He spoke about Kent in the present tense, so maybe Gant hadn't told anyone about what happened back in New York. Pam pushed her mug to the side.

"He's the one who suggested to the Chief of Police in New York that I should be a detective instead of a regular police officer. He trained me personally." Pam raised her chin in an unspoken challenge. "Saying I act like him is a great honor."

"Easy, little miss, I wasn't stompin' on your mentor's pride." Jake sat back with a laugh, his hat thunking against the wall. "I may have had my issues with Kent, but there is no denying that he is one of the best detectives out there. Man, the stories I could tell ya'—"

Jake's speech was interrupted by a faint buzzing sound. He frowned as Pam pulled out her phone from her pocket. The ID said it was Phoenix. Pam pinched the bridge of her nose, letting out a low growl. Her brother couldn't have picked a worse time to interrupt.

"This is the fifth time this morning…" she muttered. She stood, leaving her coffee on the table and giving Jake an apologetic nod. "I'm sorry, but I really have to take this. Can we pick this up some other time?"

Jake nodded, frown fading away. "Seems like you have some business of your own." He stood up with a yawn, stretching his back. "I suppose I should meander on back to my station. Those screens aren't going to watch themselves, miss. When you want to talk about Kent, stop on by. Someone can give you directions if you get lost."

"Oh, Marshall?" He turned back to look at her, eyebrows raised. Pam forced herself to laugh, trying to stamp her nerves down. "Can we keep this between us? I don't want the free world knowing I was taught by Kent. I…want to stand on my own two feet, not be compared to him." What a lie. She would do anything to be like her mentor. There was good, and then there was him. He was in a league all his own. But she didn't want Jake spreading anything around. If people started asking questions, she was screwed. Jake rubbed his stubble.

"I suppose I can keep this little conversation of ours a secret. But I want some security. So, here's my proposition." He held out a hand, and she reluctantly took it. "I want you to promise that, when I need you, you will help me without question. If Kent chose you as his protégé, that means you have a sharp mind on you, and I could use that."

"For what?"

"Hey now, I said no questions!" He squeezed her hand a bit. He didn't hurt her, but something about the way he was looking at her made her think he wasn't planning on having her watch the evidence rooms for him. Pam wasn't sure what to make of Jake Marshall, but if she wanted to keep Kent's name out of the air, she had no choice but to agree. He let go of her hand, a genuine grin on his face. "Well, this has been a great conversation, little miss. Until we meet again, when the sun shines on our faces and the wind blows at our backs." He pointed his fingers at her like a gun before walking out of the breakroom. Pam swore she heard western style music as he left.

She shook her head, bringing herself back to the present. She had taken too long, and the phone had stopped vibrating. Phoenix, being a persistent brat, was already calling a second time. She flicked the phone open with her thumb.

"Pamola Wright speaking, though I'm sure you already know that." She didn't bother holding the spite out of her voice.

"I know, I know, I'm sorry!" Her brother's panicked voice only garnered him a bit of sympathy. Pam took another sip of coffee while Phoenix rambled. "It's just, this is my first case I'm ever taking on! Do you have any idea how nervous I am?"

She gulped down the rest of her drink and set it in the sink, rolling her eyes when her brother started to hyperventilate. "Phee, I understand your nerves, but you need to relax."

"Relax?" he squeaked. "This is Larry we're talking about. You know what they used to say at school. When something smells—"

"—it's usually the Butz. I remember, unfortunately. But Phoenix, we both know that Larry couldn't murder someone. Especially not someone he was in love with." Phoenix had told her the majority of his first case a few nights ago. It seemed impossible that Larry, a clutz and a moron, would ever hurt anybody but himself. He was being put on trial for the murder of one Cindy Stone, but it probably would be an open and shut trial. If she hadn't been working, she would have liked to go and watch Phoenix, to give him some support. But he wasn't a baby. Pam knew her brother would be fine. Mia wouldn't have let him go out there only to be killed in court. Still, his needless worry was starting to grate on her nerves.

"Listen, Phee," she began, "you are going to do fine. When does the hearing start?" A pause, then a deep sigh.

"10, I'm pretty sure."

"Then you have two hours. Go sit down, clear your head, and read over your case report. Mia will take care of you, I'm sure."

Phoenix was quiet for awhile, long enough that Pam thought he had hung up. Slowly, he let out a pained sigh.

"I just don't want to screw this up, Pam. Larry is my friend. What if I lose?"

"You won't. Your smarter than you give yourself credit for."

"I mean, what if I'm up against some big prosecutor? I'd be dead before I ever said anything."

His whining finally wore her down. With a sigh, Pam made her way back to her computer. At some point, Gumshoe had up and left, leaving her in blissful quiet for a bit.

"I doubt that would happen, but I'll see what I can find for you. I'm not making any promises though. I'm not sure they'll even have information on the prosecution here, so don't get your hopes up." The words had barely left her mouth before her brother spoke up.

"Thank you, Pam! Every little bit helps!"

"I said don't get your—whatever. I'll text you what I find, okay?"

"Thanks again, Pam!"

Pam closed the phone and placed it on her desk. At least he sounded a bit less worried, which was good. She wasn't sure if she could stand one more phone call from him, as much as she loved him. She cracked her knuckles and rolled her chair up to her computer. It was easy to find the case involving Larry and Cindy, as it was more recent than the others. A quick scan showed that the defense attorney would be her brother, while the prosecution would be headed by Winston Payne, also known as the 'Rookie Killer'.

Despite the name, it looked like he was not as amazing at his job as Phoenix would like to imagine. At least half of his cases ended in embarrassing defeats. She sent a quick text to her brother, giving him what sparse details she could find on Payne. He didn't respond, but it looked as if he read it. She shook her head. He'd never text when he could call. He really does like hearing himself talk.

With that distraction out of the way, Pam was again reminded of the boring setting she was in. Her body felt tired just looking at the stack of papers on her desk. She really, really didn't want to keep doing the reports. She knew she had too, but it was really starting to drain her. She found her mouse hovering over her email tab. She opened it, because anything was better than writing up more old reports. It was mostly filled with spam, but there was one from the receptionist, Lacy. It detailed how she was getting new pictures done for the department directory. Thankfully, since Pam just had her new picture taken days earlier, she was exempt.

To her surprise, so was one Jake Marshall. It said so right at the bottom of the email, next to her own name. Her eyes narrowed. There was a small line of text near the bottom of the email.

PLEASE READ! ANY PERSONEL WHO HAVE NOT UPDATED THEIR EMERGENCY CONTACT INFORMATION MUST IMMEDIATELY INFORM ME! THE NEW LAPD DIRECTORY WILL HAVE IT'S DRAFT SENT OUT NEXT SATURDAY! I WILL NOT BE ABLE TO INCLUDE NEW INFORMATION AFTER THAT DATE!

They'd had something similar in New York. Every year, contact information was updated for each employee in the department, so anyone could be contacted at any time. It was like a small, lamer version of a yearbook. She exited out of the email, leaning back in her chair. Her information had already been given to Lacy the day she had gotten here. But why was Marshall so special?

Something about it was fishy, and Pam liked trusting her instincts. She couldn't go wandering around the department and do none of her work. She'd have to sneak over to the evidence lockers on her lunch break. Maybe she could ask Marshall about the email then. It was a weird hunch to follow, and yet Pam felt the uncontrollable urge to see it through.

She went back to typing at her computer, but now her mind was occupied. The work seemed to fly by. Phoenix's first case. Marshall's picture. My own secret investigation. There were too many thoughts in her head, too many things that she needed to keep track of. While on the inside she was a rush of excitement at the possible leads to follow, she did her best to keep a calm mask on the outside. The only sign of her impatience was her glancing at the clock every few minutes and the bouncing of her leg under her table.

After 10 long days of nothing, Pam finally felt like she was back.

August 3, 12:31 PM. Police Department. Marshall's Station.

She hadn't meant to work into her lunch break. She had been so close to sneaking over to the evidence lockers before Gumshoe placed more files on her already cramped desk. Eye twitching, she typed in the new information as quickly as she could, barely finishing in time to go find Marshall. Thankfully she managed to sneak away before the obnoxious detective showed up. Pam did not want to get pulled into a conversation with him right now. A quick chat with Lacy for directions, and Pam all but sprinted to Marshall's station.

The area was fixed with all sorts of cacti and western paraphernalia. There was even a saloon style door going into the desk where the TV screens were set up. Pam slowed her walk, careful to not prick herself on any of the very real plants. Marshall was sitting behind the counter, chowing down on what looked to be steak. He wiped his mouth when she entered.

"Well, if it isn't the little lady of the town. You're here sooner than I expected."

"Sorry if I'm disturbing you, sir."

Jake burped, waving his fork in the air. "Ah, it's no issue. Besides, you technically have the higher rank out of the two of us. I should be the one saying sir to you." Pam covered her nose with her hand, gagging at the smell of the man's breath. She much preferred apple juice to the scent of old steak.

"So," he continued, finishing up his lunch, "what can I do for you? Here to hear stories about Kent?"

"Yes, well…not right now. First, I was wondering if I could ask a question. I got an email from Lacy talking about pictures for the directory. I noticed that both of us were exempt from picture day."

"Oh, that's all?" Jake gestured to the outfit he was wearing. "The ever-lovely Lacy got tired of me wearing this getup everyday. All my pictures looked the same, so she just asked me to stop coming and wasting everyone else's time. They reuse my old photo every year."

Pam rubbed the back of her neck, her hand bumping into her bun. "That's…it? That's disappointing…"

"You wanted to get some dirt on me, huh cowgirl? Unfortunately for you, I'm the cleanest man here." He was scrapping dirt from under his fingernails with his knife, leaning back on his chair so that only two legs were on the ground. "But, while you're here, did you need anything else?"

Well, just because her idea didn't pan out didn't mean she still couldn't get information. Pam leaned on the counter, tugging on a piece of hair. "Well, if you don't mind talking about Kentbé—"

"And so, the truth comes out." Jake put his knife away, putting his chair back on the ground. "I'd be more than happy too, little miss. See…urgh…you probably know this, but Kent can be…ugh…a bit of a…" Jake was holding his stomach. His face was turning a few interesting shades of green.

"Are you okay? You're looking a little…unwell."

Jake stood up, hand hovering over his mouth. "I knew I shoulda taken Angel's lunch instead of a frozen steak," he moaned. He darted from the evidence room, the saloon doors almost coming off their hinges at the force. "Make yourself at home," he said, running down the halls. "I'll be right back, like the sun rising in the east!"

Pam winced. Why is it that every time he brings up Kent, something stops him from talking? Pam slipped past the gate, scanning the area. Well, he said to make herself at home. I wonder if he has any other weird stuff in here.

Pam sat in the chair Marshall had vacated, taking a look around. Multiple bottles of alcohol lined the table, taking the place of the usual files one would expect to be there. On closer inspection, some of them were actually apple juice. The drawers had a few cowboy toys inside them. There was a fake plastic gun in one, and a bunch of small horse figurines in another. She was digging through one of the larger drawers when she saw the directory folder.

It was old. The edges had been bent over time, and the plastic cover was scratched up due to it being shoved in the drawer. It said it was from 3 years ago, back in 2013. A quick skim showed her a lot of familiar faces, as well as some who she hadn't seen around before. She didn't see anything of importance, and was about to put it back, when she noticed the last page. There, just as she remembered him, was Kentbé Wronge. She stood up, hands shaking, as she read the information below his picture. In all her wildest theories, Pam had never thought that talking to Marshall would ever get her some actual, solid evidence. She folded the directory and stuffed it in one of her jacket's inside pockets.

She left Marshall's station, powerwalking to the bathrooms. The crowd of people in the main room didn't seem to notice her, which was good. She didn't need anyone disturbing her. Pam could hear Jake retching from the men's bathroom when she got close. She didn't have time to offer her help, hoping that he would feel better soon before slipping into the women's bathroom.

The bathroom was a dank place that always smelled of mildew. She didn't mind this time, however. She locked the stall door, drawing out the folder. It was an ugly orange color, made out of cheap plastic. She flipped through it, finding Jake Marshall toward the middle. He was still wearing his cowboy fit, his face younger and, she would admit, a bit handsome. Surprisingly, there was another Marshall next to him: Neil. It said he was a prosecutor. Maybe she would get to work with him some day.

She jumped to the end, finding what she had seen before. Kent looked so different than when she knew him. He lost his short beard, instead sporting a cleanshaven look. His curly hair had been longer back then, and it was a dark brown instead of being speckled with grey. He wore a pair of circular glasses. He wasn't smiling, instead looking at the camera with a hardened stare. Underneath his picture ran a few short lines.

Kentbé Wronge

Senior Detective

Contact Info: 661-394-####

Email: kwronge

Emergency Contact: Megan Ehrars

Pam's eyes narrowed. Everything else made sense, but who was this Ehrars person? Not someone from New York. Kent's wife had passed away years ago, and her name had not been Megan. Pam's chipped nail tapped against the plastic covering the name.

Who are you, Megan, and how did you know my partner? There was a bit more contact information for Megan. Sure, the information was 3 years old, but that's not so long ago. Pam had been using the same beat-up phone since before she could remember. Perhaps Megan was the same.

A sudden knocking on her door caused the detective to jump. A quick look under the stall showed her the neat shoes of one of the patrol officers.

"Excuse me ma'am," came the quiet yet nasally voice. "Not trying to disturb you, but Detective Gumshoe wanted me to tell you that he has more work on your desk. Oh, and he left you some Chinese food for lunch since he saw you work through your break."

Pam took a deep breath, calming her nerves before answering. "Thank you, message received." You could have just waited for me to leave…She waited until she heard the main door shut before letting out a breath.

Her search hadn't been entirely fruitless after all. Her old Chief always said she had a knack for stumbling into the right thing at the right time, barring the whole incident with Kent. Maybe there could be something to this Ehrars that could lead her to more information on her late partner.

Either way, I'm all out of ideas for now. Pam left the stall, tucking the now folded directory deep into one of her inside pockets. I'll need to get back to work. I can't go asking questions just yet. Building trust inside the department has to be more important. Her stomach let out a growl, and she was painfully reminded that she hadn't eaten yet. She couldn't work without any fuel.

Putting on an indifferent front, Pam made her way out of the bathroom and back to her desk. The buzz of the department that had bothered her slowly faded out with thoughts of Megan Ehrars, and what she could possibly have to do with her former partner. The piles of work on her desk were thought of less and less the more she thought about her new possible lead. It wasn't until Goodman started to notice her laziness that she actually began to work on her paper mountain.

Even with the endless worked placed in front of her, Pam couldn't help but feel a bit of hope bubble in her chest. She and her brother had always been a bit lucky, and she needed that luck more than ever. Leads begot more leads, and she was ready to follow her paper trail right to the end.