The house is quiet in the mornings when he wakes up. He counts the minutes in his head from when he starts his morning routine to when it ends, this usually being when he's made his way to the kitchen and having just started his morning cup of coffee. His wife shuffles in right about halfway through him cooking her favorite breakfast dish, a two-egg omelet with some bacon on the side. Depending on her mood, she'll greet him with a warm hug from behind, or a playful hand on his hips; but always does she give him a kiss on the cheek.
"Good morning, babe," she would whisper, and Anderson Berry would smile to himself at the sincerity of it. Though, he wasn't entirely surprised—it is said that his omelets could entice any man or woman if they took naught but a single bite. He hadn't seen it work on anyone else except his beloved, but he was not concerned with finding out if it was true. He was content with being hers, and hers alone.
Their two kids, a son and daughter, would rise about ten minutes afterwards, trudging from their shared bedroom, rubbing the grit from their eyes. They preferred peanut-butter and jelly sandwiches, having not acquired the taste for eggs yet. It doesn't hurt his pride, because he gets to see the adoration in their faces once their Mom hands them their pre-made lunches, each with their favorite snacks and desserts to enjoy. She might have to put on a harsh tone whenever they complain about not having more cookies and candies to trade amongst their friends, but Anderson could tell that she enjoyed seeing them happy with what they were given. The two parents had heard enough horror stories about how other kids were showing up with next-to-nothing in their lunch bags, hoping that the school lunches would be enough to tide them over. They never were, and every honest parent knew it.
It the few sparse minutes before he has to leave, he catches up with his children, hears the latest gossip with his daughter's circle of friends, chides his son about almost getting into a fight with the group of bullies known for giving him and other students trouble. Yet this chiding was followed up by a ruffling of his son's hair, and a proud smile on his face; the boy would be a better man than he was, so long as he stood up for himself and for the innocent. A gentle reminder is passed down from experience: let them swing first, but be sure to swing last.
He bids farewell, and makes his way to his small subcompact, one of its tires missing its hubcap and a noticeable dent in its right bumper. It takes a couple tries to start, and he is reminded that his appointment with the auto shop down on Main Street cannot be put off any longer. He wonders how much the mechanics will charge him once they recognize him as a cop.
Anderson drives on, into the wake of the early morn.
Many days, he would spend eight hours in this sullen room, and it was perhaps the most troublesome kind of shifts he would ever experience. It might be the coffee, it might just be his nerves, but it didn't really matter to him. For Anderson, he always wanted to do something, to be a part of something. Filling out and sorting reports was one thing, and busting down doors and saving people from violent perps was another. Idealism had carried him throughout his younger days in high school and the police academy, but this had burned out whereupon encountering the department's slow-going bureaucracy and subtle hints of corruption. He believed himself to be above that, to remain true to his dream and to his loving wife and children.
He believed. He did not act this way, but he believed.
Lieutenant Corn was his acting supervisor during the first few months on the force. The lieutenant was a respectably tall man, with a strong blonde mustache on his upper lip and a propensity to have at least one pair of aviator shades on his person at all times. He was a brash man, one with a distinct tendency to say what was on his mind. There was no beating around the bush with Lt. Corn, as Anderson had learned when out on his first patrol with the aforementioned officer. Berry believed him to be an honest man, a hard man with a rough exterior, but a good heart.
This was why Berry had been surprised when Lt. Corn had ordered him to go along with a spiel to the police chief about them needing more "spares" to keep up with the ticket quota they're supposed to accumulate before payday. These "spares," which Anderson had believed to be spare ticket-pads which held only fifty-preprinted ticket sheets—not even close to their expected quota—turned out to be briefcases filled with small packets of every possible narcotic and psychedelic under the sun. The lieutenant had made it clear to him: it wasn't meant to help them with issuing tickets. It was so that if there was someone they really wanted to bring in, then the "spares" would be their justification.
After all, Corn had snickered to him—the Arcadian Police Department didn't have the budget to acquire these "spares" as well as the body-cameras that were supposed to be sold to them by the greater Tillamook County Sheriff's Office. It was a trade between the two law-enforcement agencies that just kept getting delayed, over and over again. Bureaucracy malfunctions, many would argue; the wheels of justice are turning very slowly this time around! A court would simply have to take the word of the officers involved against the accused, which they knew would be favored by every judge, bought out or otherwise.
Berry might have considered making a mess about the charades going on between Lt. Corn and the police chief if that was where the corruption ended. But the Tillamook County Sheriff's Office—now that was a mountain too steep to scale by himself. He'd have his ankles broken long before he reached the top.
Figuratively, and literally.
So, he sat down in his creaky office chair, the coffee mug placed off to the side as he combed through the new batch of report filings. Most of these were about the incident at Blackwell Academy a couple days ago. The Prescotts were running interference, calling in another favor to the police chief to do what the department always did: sit on their thumbs and wait for the ruckus to die down, then release a bogus statement saying it was a cold case, and leave it at that. A quiet settlement would be made with the families involved, and it would be expected of them to let it go, and never speak about what happened again.
Anderson chuckled to himself at the idea. If his intuition served him right, then one person wasn't going to be happy about being told to keep quiet.
His smartphone buzzed. A curious glance made him check the number…and he shuddered at the divine coincidence.
D. Madsen – Need to talk to you. Urgent.
He rolled his chair over to the opening of his cubicle and peered down the aisle where the rest of his coworkers were at. None of them were paying attention, too engrossed in their work or napping away to care. He rolled back to his desk, and began texting.
A. Berry – What about?
D. Madsen – Blackwell.
He frowned. His pensive look shifted to the batch of reports.
A. Berry – What, are you asking to add onto your testimony? You could've scheduled an appointment and left it at that.
D. Madsen - Not with this. Only you, don't have time for anyone else.
Hesitation. Anderson felt an ominous dread overtaking him. He knew Madsen was up to something ever since April, when the District Attorney's daughter upped and vanished without a trace. He would never pry about it out of respect for his friend, and because he knew that OPSEC was critical for things involving the police and the Prescotts. Yet now, there was something in the way Madsen texted that hinted true danger, not merely another meetup to rant and rave about the good old days with a couple beers in hand.
A. Berry – Where and when?
D. Madsen – Will call later during lunch break. Be ready for it in thirty.
A check of the time revealed forty minutes after ten o'clock. Great. Now he had to sit here and pretend to be busy for the next half-hour. A part of him hoped the dread he felt was unwarranted—a part of him hoped it was.
He glanced back at the reports. A hand slowly takes the overstuffed manila folder holding them together, and opens it. He flips through pages of testimony, and lands on the one he's interested in.
Madsen, David T.
It was short, but very detailed. Madsen had pulled everything he could from the incident and spoke it to the officer receiving his testimony. Even went on a tangent about the shell casings and his estimations of how and when the perp had fled the scene. Anderson chuckled—the poor officer taking Madsen's statement must've been begging for the interview to be over before it even began.
Berry was curious how the little prince did it. From what he gathered, it seemed that Sean Prescott's son had a firearm on his person, and had discharged two rounds inside the main building—specifically in the girls' bathroom. How the slimy little bastard ended up in there, Anderson had his theories, but most likely among them was a meetup for some drugs. He suspected that Nathan had to be coordinating with his suppliers to facilitate the entertainment at those parties the prince hosted on Blackwell's campus. Berry knew damn well of this—the entire station would make bets on who was going to be patrolling near the campus during party nights to catch any students driving while intoxicated. Large, fat fines for DUIs meant fatter paychecks, after all.
Yet, he could not help but wonder—why?
Why would the prince meet up there, of all places? Had he been coerced into a meetup? If memory serves him right, then the primary victim to Prescott's gun was…
Anderson's features became downtrodden. He remembers being called out to an altercation between a drunken militiaman and civilian many months ago; both made claims about being assaulted by each other, and he couldn't help but notice the inconsistencies in the militiaman's story. Whatever he could understand of it, at least. The guy was at least four pints deep, and had a drowsy look to him; far too drunk was he to be on guard duty, let alone in broad daylight.
The civilian was a girl, in her late teens. He remembered this moment as the first time he had encountered Madsen's stepdaughter, with her bright blue eyes and equally bright locks of hair. Berry remembered that harsh glare of hers most, the fire in her gaze that burned away any notion of timidness he would see with most other girls her age. She was a fighter, through-n-through.
A shame it was, that such anger might be the reason she now resides in the hospital. David had downed too many beers the last time they hung out, and had spilled the news with silent tears. It was the only time Madsen cried in front of him in such a manner, so much so that David himself called off the hangout and went back home to his wife soon after. Anderson didn't blame him.
Had this stepdaughter of David's forced Nathan's hand, there in that bathroom? Maybe. Berry didn't know. All the testimony he's gone through was the same: location being outside of the bathrooms, compelled to run away when the gunshots sounded, seeing no one suspicious come out afterwards. Even the testimony of Principal Wells spelled out the same thing, if only that he came bolting out of his office to retreat to the safety of outside. In fact, outside of Madsen's testimony, there was only one person who differed from the rest.
Officer Berry glanced over to a manila folder closest to his desktop computer, having been pulled from the stack when he had first combed through it. His chair rolled over to it, and with gentle hands he opened the folder and eyed the name at the top of the testimony sheet.
Marsh, Kate B.
It was just as short as Madsen's testimony, but so…inconsistent. Where Madsen had given exact details, numbers and measurements and the like, Marsh gave vague descriptions of a series of events that more-or-less lined up with the truth.
The actual truth, Berry emphasized to himself, because the actual truth contrasted with what Marsh had told him when she testified. Hell, the truth contrasted by way of her being a witness to begin with. Why had she stayed behind? Why hadn't she seen anyone beside Madsen enter the bathroom? Was she aware of who it was at that point, and chose not to tell the truth?
It didn't make sense, but perhaps it didn't have to. Anderson glanced at the time at the bottom right of his computer screen, which showed seven minutes before eleven o'clock.
Perhaps, he wouldn't need to figure out the truth. Perhaps, it just might come to him.