Rick hated unfinished business. The warrant for Ed Peletier was unfinished business. That was a problem.
When the document first came across his desk, Rick had read through it, had seen the filth accumulated in type-set black and white under the department's official letterhead. The charges were numerous: public intoxication, domestic disturbance, assault and battery, wrapped up with a restraining order tying it all together. He'd seen enough files like it to know that Ed was trouble, to be sure that he needed to be stopped or he was going to do damage.
The issue arose when he'd actually tried to find Mr. Ed Peletier, only to discover that the man had disappeared. Completely. Without a trace.
The timeline should have been simple. With no job and no family (that hadn't left him), Ed had nothing to pull him out of his normal routine, no reason to be anywhere but his house or one of the many bars nearby. And yet Ed had wandered out of one of those bars nearby and staggered himself off somewhere half-past oblivion, never to be seen again.
It was a mystery Rick hadn't been able to solve, couldn't wrap his head around enough to figure out. After his fifth time canvassing the neighborhood, sixth time re-interviewing neighbors and other potential witnesses, and his eighth time going over the case file, he'd given up, turning his attention to fresher cases and letting that specific file sit on his desk until he could deal with it. He didn't like unfinished business, and Ed Peletier felt like the one that got away, but there wasn't yet anything he could do.
But then, when Rick got out of the hospital from an unluckily accurate gunshot from a poorly-handled gun in the hand of an amateur from across a field at a distance that really shouldn't have reached him, with the ultimatum of stay home or you'll be working your damn desk ringing in his ears, that file had caught his eye again. He'd picked it up, the familiar burn of a case he had to solve coursing through him… and then he'd marched into the chief's office and accepted the leave, folder already hidden in his bag. He'd almost regretted the decision when he'd started driving, each minor jostle setting the still-healing bullet wound to twinging, but the tickle of nervous energy in his veins - dispelled only slightly by the rush of wind through open windows - kept him moving through it. But then he'd arrived, stepping out of the vehicle to stand for a few contemplative moments in front of the one place he'd never visited in his investigation and he regretted it not at all.
For all he'd investigated the case, he'd never really had the chance to talk to Carol Peletier. She'd disappeared just before Ed's disappearance, walking - or, rather, limping - out of the hospital and off into hiding. No one had ever actually found her, but no one had tried that hard either; everyone knew what he did to her, after all, and no one begrudged her a fresh start.
And yet Rick - that manila folder sitting just in front of him, surprisingly glaring in his peripheral vision despite the fact that it was simply a bland, tan neutral - couldn't let things lie. He understood her desire to drop things and he'd do his best to preserve that for her, but she of all people, had to understand the importance of stopping a beast like Ed Peletier.
So, he'd tracked her down. It wasn't that hard, really, which made him wonder if his colleagues had ever really tried; she hadn't even changed her name. All she'd seemed to have done was transfer her money to a different, unknown account, dropping her old credit cards for new ones and dropping the old house as quickly as possible. It was a matter of a few days max to find The Cherokee Rose, owned by Carol Peletier. There was another name on the deed listing that Rick didn't recognize - Daryl Dixon - but she had basically the same identity, simply moved over a few counties and deposited in a diner on the interstate.
He couldn't deny, though, that The Cherokee Rose was remarkable. It wasn't anything inherently unique - the basic structure of the joint was the same as any other roadside diner, the decorations a little ubiquitous, the location not especially stunning - and yet it was quaint and beautiful in a way that defied explanation. The sign was hand-painted, delicate, orange cursive spiraling its way across the light cream sign and culminating in the stem of… well, some kind of flower. He could see Carol from outside, personally manning the counter, silverish hair swept behind her as she smiled down at the laminated countertop. There was even a small garden out front, clearly hand-tended, and matching the floral arrangements on the interior tables.
As he stood there, though, peering in surprisingly clean windows given the road dust around them, Rick couldn't help stiffening, a chill running down his back. It was odd - the temperature was way too high to be cold, and his infection definitely hadn't come back (he checked, just to be sure) - and so present in a way that convinced him that something was wrong.
He wasn't sure whence it came, but he still recognized the feeling in some dim part of his brain, remembered the jolt of instinct for what it was. There was something about Carol as she moved in the building - a subtle edge to her smile, a tension to her stance, a surprisingly free gleam in her eyes, a surety in her motions - that set him on edge, too.
And so it was that he didn't go to The Cherokee Rose and didn't talk to Carol… or, at least, not yet. No, first, he turned and went to the house nearby, knocking on the wooden door and waiting for it to swing open. He almost regretted going professional right off the bat - nearly wincing at the harsh, repetitious bang on the door if not at the stilted professionalism of "Deputy Rick Grimes. Can you open the door?" - but he shrugged it off. Rather than dwell, he took his first step forward in the case as he took his first step across the threshold.