Chapter 28 - Retribution

After a night of poor sleep, I stood on the academy lawn with our mixed D and A squad cadets, my eyes fighting staying open. Captain Callahan looked crisp and awake as ever, her hair and makeup perfect as always, sunglasses perched on the top of her head that she lowered when announcing the day's activities. Harris stood off to the side, happily not needing his sling anymore, but looking worse for wear, to say the least.

So far there hadn't been any reporters on campus, but it was rather early for that. I wondered how Harris's night had gone.

"Today we will be traveling to the weapons area," Callahan announced. "You will be tested not only on your aim but your judgement as well. We have set up a course, of sorts, with innocent bystanders and criminals, and you are expected to be able to eliminate the correct targets with no collateral damage."

"Has anyone ever flunked this test?" Fenster asked.

"More often than not," a tired-looking Harris remarked.

"Does that mean that you flunked it?"

"Nope."

"What about Tackleberry?" someone muttered.

"Good guess," Harris grunted. "Way too much… collateral damage. Sound familiar?"

Callahan glared at him with total animosity. Some of A squad fidgeted. My eyes went wide with the revelation. Had he meant to just say all that, or did his tiredness make him less discerning than usual?

"Is that true, that Captain Tackleberry flunked the course?" Stetson said now, talking out of turn. I never thought I'd see the day that an A squad man would do such a D squad thing.

Callahan put on her sunglasses and crossed her arms.

"Affirmative," she replied, "but he easily passed when he repeated the test. We will reconvene at the cul de sac after breakfast. A firearm will be supplied at the testing site. Ten-hut! Dismissed!"

The squadron broke up into little clusters at this point, Brookstone glued to Stetson's side, Mullers and Stiner walking close to me. The A squad men mostly walked individually to the cafeteria.

"Are you okay, Carnegie?" Mullers asked. "That was some scary shit on Thursday at the pool. We were gonna visit you in the hospital, but when we got there, they said you were already gone."

"Did you really almost drown?" Stiner added.

"I did," I nodded, recalling it was the last time they had seen me. So much had changed since then. I was now back with Harris. He was now surely on Mahoney's shit-list and by extension, all the academy's instructors'.

"What did they do at the hospital?"

"Gave me oxygen, mostly," I said, keeping it short. "I didn't even see a doctor."

"We're glad you're okay. You seem pretty much back to normal."

"I am."

There was a pause, as the real questions were probably getting ready to come out.

"How awkward was that car ride with Harris?" Mullers blurted.

"Definitely awkward," I began. "I couldn't talk very well, so I didn't say much." Apparently I was pretty adept at this lying thing too.

"Did he?"

"You mean, Lieutenant Harris?"

"Yeah."

"Eh, mostly making sure I'd make it there," I lied again.

"Did you see? Lieutenant Harris didn't go to the big press conference that was on Sunday," Stiner commented. "They'd been building him up on the news earlier for his being one of Captain Tackleberry's instructors. Lots of people spoke in favor of Tackleberry—you could hear the crowd yelling out in the background though. Him blowing that off doesn't seem like him."

No one at this point knew that Harris and I were back together, and the twenty yards or so he stayed away from me on the way to the cafeteria supported that. I could understand why this had to be done; surely the other instructors were just begging for him to trip up.

"Oh," I said. "That is odd."

"What did you do this weekend?" Mullers said. Lieutenant Harris, I mused. Again and again and again.

"Not much," I said, shrugging. "Recovering, mostly."

"You never gave me your number," Mullers commented. "I could've called you, at least."

"That's okay," I said. "I can give you my number later if you want—and you can give me yours too. You too, Stiner."

All of a sudden, I saw them—reporters with notebooks and cameras around their necks, parking in the cul de sac in front of the building and practically stampeding in the direction of the main building. They wore little badges on their blazers and looked hot as heck in the mid-morning sun, squinting as they seemed to search the campus for their quarry.

Harris was right. The reporters had come. But were they after his statement? So far, it was impossible to tell.

As we continued to walk towards the main building, I felt growing panic about two things. So if I were to hang out with Harris this coming weekend at his house, Mullers would know something was up when I didn't answer my home phone. I doubt she would blab about it to other people, but I couldn't know for sure. Apparently loyalty was a big deal around here, but loyalty to who, I wasn't sure.

I also began to panic for Lieutenant Harris. How would he handle the onslaught of reporters? Would he impress them as he'd hoped he would? Or would he risk further irritating the rest of the academy employees? There were at least five reporters now, each from a different news station that was plastered in loud colors on the side of each vehicle they'd pulled up in. Two of the reporters had cameramen with them, who attempted to follow them through the wet grass. Oh boy.


I was already seated in the cafeteria, which was packed, when Harris entered. And right there next to him was a reporter, holding a notebook in one hand, a pencil in the other. As soon as Harris and the reporter came through the doors, a loud alarm-like sound began going off, one that sounded like the annoying buzzes of an alarm clock. Some of the students looked around, confused, but it was Harris who had the most noticeable response.

Harris flinched at the unexpected sound, then glared around suspiciously, his eyes locking on Lieutenant Jones. I could see the grimace on his face as he then shook his head. Even so, Harris said nothing, heading to the buffet line, the reporter trailing behind him like a lost puppy.

Again, the alarm sound went off. Harris flinched again but stayed facing the buffet line, shaking his head. I made a face. So Proctor had apparently told someone about the reason Harris hadn't come to the press conference. How else would Jones know to make the exact sound of an alarm clock going off, just as Lieutenant Harris came into the room? Evidently Harris had been wrong in believing his peers wouldn't try to embarrass him in front of reporters. They'd only just arrived and already he'd been the target of one thankfully mild prank.

I spoke with Mullers and Stiner for the rest of lunch, successfully avoiding any obvious glances Harris's way. After he'd gotten his food, he sat down alone at his table, ignoring the reporter, who loomed above him, seeming to ask him questions that weren't answered. I was disappointed that Harris wasn't able to sit with me and chat, but I understood why he couldn't. Why couldn't I be like the other cadets, falling for other cadets and not for a forbidden relationship with an instructor?

Even so, I was happy to know we'd be leaving campus for the gun range. At least that meant Harris could escape the reporters. The big blue police academy bus was sitting beside the reporters' cars, waiting to take us to our firearm test off-campus.

The firearm testing site was set up similar to a western town, with a big cardboard building façade and white sheets sliding into and out of doorways and windows showing either a criminal with a gun or an unarmed civilian. Stetson was one of the first cadets to go, and he performed as well as I'd imagined he would. Mullers did really well, and smiled as she returned to me and Stiner, having clearly passed. When another A squad cadet, Johnson, however, got ready, he was way too overzealous, shooting at anything that moved, basically, and put a slug through a (thankfully fake) little girl's neck.

Callahan and Harris stood in the background.

"Huh," Harris muttered. "I wonder where he learned that."

Callahan shot him a look of disgust, leaning towards him to reply in a harsh whisper. I was close enough to hear her comment to him.

"You're a worm," she hissed. "And now you're taking advantage of the press to boost yourself. Disgusting."

The exercise certainly produced some overzealous shooting from the A squad men. At least four of them shot the building or door in addition to shooting the "bad guys." In fact, Johnson came rushing out of the building backwards, shooting in our direction as he destroyed the head of the first target with his shotgun. Several D squad cadets failed, but none of us failed for shooting too much. In fact, I myself didn't get the gun ready in time for the first bad guy, but did shoot the second one with the provided shotgun. A 50%, clearly a fail.

Surprisingly, Harris said nothing more as the A squad men overdid it, merely standing quietly with his clipboard, shaking his head and tsking all the while.


The next day, I noticed Harris looking very much unlike himself as we stood on the lawn in formation. His hair was askew, buttons done up the wrong way, his uniform shirt untucked on one side. He'd let stubble grow in on his face, and his eyelids were heavy. Was he not sleeping or something?

I thought Harris would be making himself look more put-together than ever, being as reporters were still stalking the campus, attempting to get various people to share statements about the growing anti-Tackleberry sentiment. At the academy, we were in a bubble and couldn't see the news about Tackleberry now that the week had begun, but now that the reporters had come to us, we were more and more aware that this wasn't going away anytime soon.

Once we'd been sent back to the academy to eat, I took a detour and went to my room to write Harris a note. I wrote that I was worried about him and that we needed to talk.

When I'd gone back to the cafeteria, already running late, Harris was nowhere in sight. I couldn't help but make a puzzled face as I walked toward Mullers' and Stiner's table.

"Did you see that?" Mullers said, smiling broadly. "Harris must've got the spicy special! Never knew he could run that fast, especially while coughing so hard!"

I had to find him, but how would I leave the cafeteria without making it seem so obvious?

"Where did he go?" I asked. "I can't believe I missed that!"

"Towards the bathrooms that way," Mullers said, pointing. "The reporters tried to follow him but he was really booking it."

"Ah," I said, glancing in the direction. I knew what I had to do.

I went up to the buffet line and got one of every type of food, which wasn't like me. As I continued to stand at the buffet, I took a spoon and tried each type of food. Nothing was even the least bit spicy—in fact, it was all very bland and tasteless. So someone had pranked Harris yet again.

I had to get to the bathrooms and to Harris, so I would be having the "spicy special" as well.

Before I'd even left the buffet line, I started coughing uncontrollably. I quickly moved towards the drink dispensers and shoved someone out of the way while coughing, getting a glass of water. Even so, I continued to cough after drinking it, and grabbed my throat. I could see now that Mullers and Stiner were looking at me. One of the reporters that had most likely been chasing Harris was now staring at me.

My eyes wide, I grimaced and ran off as well towards the bathrooms. Damn, this police academy was teaching me to lie quite effectively.


"Anyone in there?" I shouted, coughing, as I pounded on the men's restroom, an empty glass now in my hand.

"Leave me alone! Damn vultures!" a gravelly voice shouted back, followed by more coughing. So he was in there. Was anyone else?

I didn't care. Seeing the hallway behind me empty, I pushed into the room and found Harris by the sinks in the restroom, his face bright red, eyes watering.

"What happened?" I immediately asked, very concerned for how he looked.

"Lock—lock the door," he choked out, pointing, and I immediately went over and locked the outer restroom door.

I walked back toward him, watching him attempt to drink water directly from the tap. Geez, what did they give him?

"Here's a glass," I said, holding the empty glass to him. He snatched it quickly away and filled it up, chugging the water as if he only had moments to spare before dying of dehydration.

All the while I watched him in the mirror as he attempted to stop coughing, his eyes glassy and teary. It was odd seeing him in that way but assumed it had to had something to do with the spicy food. I said nothing about his appearance, because I knew he couldn't reply just yet.

After another couple of minutes, he'd stopped coughing and merely stood in front of the mirrors, his hands planted on the counter, head down as he swallowed several times in a row. A knock at the door made him yell out to look for another bathroom.

"What happened?" I asked again, hoping he'd be able to answer.

"Someone put somethin' in my food," he growled lowly. "Liquid fire. Burning my throat, my nose, my eyes. Ugh…"

"Looks like more has been going on," I replied. "I heard the alarm sounds yesterday when you came into the cafeteria."

"Yeah, well, the last two nights have been utter hell," he said. "I knew the damn pranks would be ramped up, and I was right."

I suppressed the urge to roll my eyes, being as he was certain the pranks wouldn't happen when the reporters were around, and this was apparently now the second one that had been. Ah well.

"What did they do?"

"The first night, they hid five alarm clocks in my room, each of which went off at every hour starting at two. They put the last one on the ceiling somehow—I had to throw my baton at it to knock it down. Broke the ball off my damn baton. Got no sleep at all."

"What about last night?"

"More damn alarms. I checked the room before I went to sleep, but they must have snuck in later. When I woke up at the sound of the first alarm, I sat up right into what felt like a spider web. They'd strung this cottony shit all over the room and put some realistic-looking spiders in there as well. Thought I was gonna have a heart attack."

"Does your room door not lock?"

"Oh, it's supposed to, but someone's got insider access. Janitors are probably up Tackleberry's ass as well."

"That's awful," I said. "Maybe you should stay at your house at night, so they can't get to you."

"Hell no," he said. "It's all part of their plan. First they'll get me to leave the academy at night. And then they'll try to get me to leave the academy during the day. Then they'll make me leave altogether!"

"What are you going to do then?" I asked him. "You don't want them to do this for the rest of the academy. Maybe you could talk to Captain Mahoney, make a supportive statement—"

"Over my dead body," he growled. "In fact, all this pranking has reinforced my views about Tackleberry. He is a loose cannon, a trigger-happy troublemaker, surrounded by a bunch of enablers that resort to acting like little brats when their buddy isn't unanimously worshipped."

"But he's just one guy," I said. "You could end this, just by saying something nice about Tackleberry to one of these reporters. What does it matter if you just give in and do what they want?"

"Because he's training other cops," he replied. "If he's encouraging cadets to act like he does, then he's making more loose cannons. It's bad enough we have to accept anyone who signs up for the academy: felons, fatties, the works. Yet, it's worse for morale and far worse for society to produce cops that think it's okay to shoot first and ask questions later."

I opened my mouth to reply but he wasn't done speaking.

"I may not be the best cop," he began, wagging his finger, "but I can tell you, I have not and never will be accused of excessive force or police brutality." He slammed a fist on the sink top. "Us cops shouldn't stand for it. Just 'cause Tackleberry's a nice guy or whatever doesn't mean he should have free reign to create a bunch of Tackleberry clones."

Now someone else was banging on the door.

"Go somewhere else!" Harris screeched.

I couldn't help but give him a look of pity. He sounded sincere enough.

"Seems like we aren't going to have much more time to talk here," I said. "Can we talk later? I was going to try to give you a note, but was told you ran here."

"Did anyone see you coming after me?" he said, his shoulders slumping. "We shouldn't be—"

"Actually, I acted like I'd eaten something bad as well, and ran away coughing toward the bathroom. No one was around when I came in here."

"You're becoming a good liar," he said, smiling.

"Well, I learned from the best," I replied, giving him a nudge.