Chapter 3 – Inspector Hammer
Inspector Sledge Hammer had heard that it was darkest just before the dawn. He wasn't sure he believed it though.
Every morning he rose before dawn, showered and then he and Gun headed to a nearby park. After many such visits he concluded that it was darkest when the sky was overcast and there was no moon. However dark it was, the darkness suited Hammer and Gun perfectly. Darkness made the perfect cover. Once they found a quiet place, deep in the shadows they would wait. Wait and watch, as the park slowly come alive.
Most mornings, there were three types of people in the park. The two most important types were Inspector Sledge Hammer, and seafood. Hammer wasn't terribly picky about seafood. Honestly, he preferred a good steak. Seafood was only good for two things: catching and filleting. Preferably with Hammer doing both the catching and the filleting. Sure, the take consisted mostly of trash fish. Sea urchins, scum suckers, and other bottom feeders, with the occasional piece of driftwood thrown in. Occasionally, he'd find something bigger. Something worth filleting and roasting himself. You never knew what the morning might bring.
All that was required in order to reel in the daily limit was a bit of patience. And bait. The third type of people were bait.
From moms with tots in strollers, to joggers and cyclists, to the occasional grandmother out feeding the ducks, everyone out at this time of day seemed to be in the dark. Whether because they were checking their pulses, or checking their newsfeeds, or chatting with the ducks, they were so focused on themselves that, to more predatory species, they were little more than plankton, drifting with the current. Other, more malevolent forms, cruised stealthily among them, awaiting only opportunity. Hammer, the apex predator, waited for them.
This morning is not most mornings, Hammer thought sourly.
He had missed all his regular routines. He hadn't been home; he hadn't showered, or shaved. He hadn't gotten dressed as usual, concealing Gun's snug resting place beneath a carefully chosen sports jacket. He hadn't gone for his regular early morning troll in the park. He was still wearing the same jacket he'd worn the day before, in slightly more rumpled condition. He wasn't even entirely certain if "now" was this morning or still last night. The only thing he knew for certain; certainly the only thing he knew that mattered; was that Gun wasn't speaking to him.
He'd tried everything he could think of to get Gun to open up. For what had seemed endless hours he had been crisscrossing the city, visiting all of Gun's favourite haunts.
The gun shop ... closed. The firing range ... closed. The little pastry shop where he and Gun sometimes helped make the little holes in donuts ... it was closed, too. Even though they couldn't get inside, at each location he'd taken Gun from beneath his jacket. At each place he had hoped that the familiar sights would stir happy memories. That something, anything, would rouse Gun from stony silence. Each time he was disappointed. Each time, when he failed, the silence seemed to deepen. Now it was engulfing him. An oppressive, dense fog, clouding everything and leaving no obvious way out.
How did I get here?
Three days ago, his morning had been normal. He had risen at 6:00 am. Fifteen minutes of calisthenics got his blood pumping. Gun's version of exercise got his neighbours' blood pumping, too. After a quick shower, he toweled himself dry. Then he buffed Gun's frame and cylinder until ... for a brief moment he contemplated Gun's pronoun. They? It? He? He shrugged. Gun shone after a good buffing. He brushed and flossed, followed by checking the grooves in Gun's grips for residual foreign material. A final pat down, aftershave for him and a spritz of oil for Gun and they were both ready to face the day.
Everything had been perfectly ordinary. Certainly, Gun had given him a cheery click, click, click as he reloaded and spun the cylinder before placing it snugly into the split leather holster under his arm, and heading off to the park.
The morning troll in the park had particularly productive. Along with the regular catch of minnows and other small fry, Hammer had managed to hook something large enough to be worth grilling himself. He had known as soon as he saw a man carrying a bag of knitting needles that something didn't add up. That was how the Voodoo Killer, aka Dominic Tauber, had unwittingly found himself in Hammer's net.
Hammer was actually humming "You and Me Go Fishin' in the Park" when he arrived at the Precinct. Ignoring Dominic's requests for a lawyer and a phone call, Hammer had locked him in Interrogation before taking the rest of his mullions to be booked. All during the boringly routine process that followed, Hammer had been salivating at the thick, juicy fillet o' fish waiting to be BBQ'd in the interrogation room. Gun was hoping to help, too. Neither one of them had counted on Doreau's curiosity.
Puzzled by banging sounds emanating from a dark, locked interrogation room, she had started asking questions. The first officers she had questioned told her no more than she had already guessed. "Hammer", they said, and shrugged her off. No one wanted to get more involved than that. Mayjoy, however, had cracked under her third degree stare, spilling not only beans but information .
Doreau was more than a little intrigued that Hammer had netted a suspect in the "Voodoo Murders". Possible suspect, she reminded herself. This was Hammer, after all, making it just as likely that he'd picked up some street busker who'd made an unfortunate choice of objects to juggle. All the same, it was a high profile case. She pulled all the case files and relevant evidence.
By the time Hammer got back, Doreau had thoroughly prepared and was waiting for him. Worse, she was having Mayjoy replace the burnt out light. Since Captain Trunk had made him clean out all of his circus props, Hammer had switched to a dark room and a bright flashlight for his interrogations. Doreau objected of course, as she always did, insisting on being by the book. Hammer was fine with that, as long as he got to throw the book, at some point.
She also insisted that Dominic had rights. Hammer agreed. He pointed out all Dominic's rights: a leg, an arm, a hand, a foot, an eye, and an ear. So what? He pointed out that Dominic had matching lefts, too. He was about to point out that the fact that the felon had all his rights and lefts meant he had not removed anything, yet, when Doreau clarified that she meant legal rights. Phone calls and lawyers. Yadda, yadda, yadda. Hammer stopped listening.
Too many cops spoil the interrogation And what's this doll doing in here?.
He was just getting started when, thanks to Doreau's meddling, Meat Loaf's band of lawyers had shown up. OK, one lawyer wasn't much of a band, but then neither was Meat Loaf. In a truly cruel twist of fate however, the lawyer turned out to be an old high school buddy, Scott Grable.
Scott complicated matters. Doreau had only insisted that Dominic had rights. Scott insisted that Dominic was free. On bail. Even Dominic protested. With everything else that was going on, he'd missed breakfast.
Hammer could tell when things weren't going his way. He sighed. Not only was the justice system flawed, karma didn't seem to be on his side either.
I didn't even get to the first chorus with this pigeon, he thought.
In disgust, he threw the doll into the trash, trying to move things along before someone could offer to get Dominic something from the cafeteria.
There was only one small consolation to the morning. Hammer knew a repeat offender when he saw one. He'd see Dominic again, Hammer was certain, hoping that next time it would be without a meddling attorney.
Hammer was starting to sweat. The night wouldn't last forever. The idea of reporting for work without a resolution to his problem with Gun was making him desperate. So desperate that he even tried to get Gun a hot oil massage in a sketchy back alley.
For a while it had looked like he might succeed, until it became clear to the young lady he had met that by "gun" he meant Gun. Even though moments before she had been all "anything you like for 50 bucks", she abruptly changed her mind, running out into the street in panic, flagging down a passing SFPD patrol car and making ridiculous accusations about a pervert in a green car propositioning her.
Pervert? Poppycock! I have a badge. What is a badge, if it isn't a permit to carry a gun? And when did proper gun care become a perversion? Her mind, as well as her shoes, were clearly in the gutter. I saw her kick them off so she could run faster.
Normally Hammer would have approved of the young officer's attention to detail.
The main reason so many genetic mutants are loose on the streets, he thought, is because someone hadn't paid enough attention to details. Hammer sighed. That, and poor aim..
Hammer noticed everything, and practiced regularly on the shooting range. That's what sets me apart from the other 99%. The Occupy Movement should be more grateful!
As 20 minutes stretched into 30, Hammer began to wonder if there could be too much of a good thing, especially when he were the detail getting all the attention.
The patrol officer was being thorough and meticulous. He checked Hammer's driver's license, and his registration. He took several more minutes to review numerous driving infractions that turned up. He checked his badge and his unit number. He checked everything but his shoe size with Dispatch before letting him go with a stern warning to deal with the eight parking violations.
Eight? Pffft! The volume discount didn't kick in until I reach an even dozen.
Hammer, Doreau and Scott had gone for a drink together after work. Sort of a melange of three. Scott wanted to catch up with an old friend; Doreau was curious about anything from Hammer's past; and Hammer ... well Hammer was trying to right a wrong. It was wrong, he thought, that Scott was on the other side of the law. Maybe if Scott spent less time with the criminal element and more time hanging out with cops like himself, his perspective could be changed. At the very least, if he insisted on remaining a lawyer, perhaps he could be a prosecutor rather than a defendant. While Hammer was musing about this possibility, Gun had had alerted him to an errant table hockey puck. Probably Russian. Together they brought it down before in could damage any critical infrastructure.
Although Hammer would never admit it, it was ..., it was ni.., it wasn't all bad meeting his old friend and reminiscing about old times. Karma even seemed to be on his side for once. An unexpected "215" call had provided Hammer with an opportunity to show his friend what real law enforcement looked like. Of course, the ride along hadn't gone exactly as Hammer had hoped. Sure a good 215 always got the blood pumping a little. A quick chase, a couple of well placed gunshots - a takedown that always went a little more smoothly once you had the full attention of the miscreants. It went even smoother when you didn't have a lawyer along passing out business cards, reminding the scum sucking sea urchins that they had a right to remain silent, they had a right to legal representation and that was his number right there.
Karma is fickle, he decided, determined to not make that mistake again.
Hammer considered leaving Scott to find his own way home. Instead he settled for letting Scott buy pizza and the two of them passed the rest of the evening reminiscing with an old high school yearbook. They'd had each other's backs during high school, sharing several interests, track and field events among them. Hammer was still thrilled remembering how everyone had run and jumped excitedly whenever he had fired his pistol.
Things haven't really changed, he thought, except they jump even higher and run even faster at the sound of a magnum. We could probably have won the state championship if I'd known then what I know now.
Hammer thought he was actually connecting with Scott, and then his friend broke the news ... he was getting married. Hammer was taken aback. For a moment he wasn't sure had heard correctly.
How could someone who looked as happy as Scott did be getting married? It is as if Scott was actually looking forward to the end of life as he knew it.
It gave Hammer an uneasy feeling. The hair on the back of his neck stood up and tried to salute. Normally it only did that when the national anthem was being played, not taps. It wasn't that late yet, and he hoped it wasn't too late for Scott. Before he could come up with a Plan B though, Scott insisted on leaving, saying it was late and that he had an early morning.
Feeling pressured, all Hammer had come up with as an intervention was a double date. If some woman was blinding Scott to reality then perhaps an evening of Doreau's nagging could open his eyes before he was taken for a ride on a broomstick.
Finally alone in his car again, Hammer admitted was running out of ideas. He didn't understand it. The only thing that seemed to be open was a 24 hour cash machine. What was the point of having 24 hour cash machines if there was no place open to spend cash? His driving became more and more aimless.
Now, it seemed, he was at a dead end. Literally. At least, that was what the sign now leaning against the hood of his car proclaimed.
Well, if I can't go forward …
Moving the gear selector to the reverse position, he depressed the gas pedal, which had the immediate effect of causing the sign to topple the rest of the way into the street, making a loud crashing noise as it did. An instant later he felt himself thrown hard back against his seat as the car lurched to a stop again, accompanied by loud, solid sounding bang! He checked the rear-view for any obvious obstacles. Seeing nothing but a fountain of water, he changed gears again, this time steering his St Regis towards the main road. As he did so, he had a clear view of water spraying violently from what was clearly a defective fire hydrant.
You'd think people would notice something like that and report it to the city, he thought, wondering why he was the only one who noticed such details.
The next day also started innocently enough. Doreau always had an innocent demeanor when she was nagging him. What had she been going on about this time? Lawyers, stereotypes, friends, relationships ... nothing of importance. He had blocked it all out until, finally, a Dispatch call ended her nattering. While Doreau responded to the Dispatcher, Hammer spun the car around in the street, ignoring other drivers, and raced towards the location of an armed robbery in progress.
They arrived just in time to see a masked bandit bolt across the street and into an alley. Without a moment's hesitation Hammer swerved across traffic to follow. Their quarry dodged agilely around some city workers and their barricades. Hammer realized instantly that the space was at least two sizes too small for his size 12 St. Regis. Doreau screamed something as Hammer stomped on the brakes. The car screeched to a stop, barely knocking over one barrier and toppling three workers who were obviously too old and slow to get out of the way. Doreau was busy commenting on his driving, but Hammer had no time for her praise. Swinging his door open, he leapt from the car to give chase.
A trio of bowling buddies presented him with another option. Recognizing that one of the men was carrying a Brunswick "Danger Zone" ball that he was familiar with, he ask politely to borrow it. Taking careful aim, he adjusted for windage , the uneven surface of the alley and earthquake potential. Moments later he was celebrating a strike that dropped his target in the gutter. He took his time apprehending the fugitive, giving Doreau time to catch up before lifting the sea slug to his feet with one hand and stripping the mask from his face with the other.
Hammer couldn't believe his luck. Dominic Tauber! Again! So it's true, he thought. Some things are meant to be.
Tauber seemed unconcerned though. The lowlife vermin even had the nerve to admit that he was robbing the store to pay his lawyer. He urged Hammer to take him down and book him, so Scott could bail him out. Again.
As much as it tore him up inside, Hammer had to admit that it was the circle of justice. Honest, hard working shopkeepers made money. Blood sucking leeches stole from the hard working citizens. Hard working cops caught the leeches and put them away. Then a different class of flatworms ... aka "lawyers" ... put vermin back out on the streets again. And got paid for doing it!
This time there was no lawyer in sight. Hammer was determined to keep it that way. Sure, some bleeding heart liberal would eventually make sure that Dominic got his phone call, but Hammer knew a couple of good aliases. He'd book Dominic under one of those. He wouldn't even know who he was, so when Scott came looking for him, he'd be looking for the wrong guy. And the irony was, since Dominic had been robbing the store to pay his lawyer, that leech Grable wasn't going to get paid. Crooks went to jail and lawyers starved. That was the way the justice system was supposed to work. Thank God for repeat offenders.
After getting Dominic all tucked in for the night he still had plenty of time to get to the restaurant early with Doreau. Something about the restaurant made him nervous, but he couldn't put his finger on it. Then it hit him like a dump truck - in the form of his ex-wife.
Hammer reacted instinctively to the sight of his wife, drawing his magnum for protection. He tried to storm out quietly, but she wouldn't let his bygones be gone. No, she had to stop him and try to change him one more time before he made it to the door.
Same old Suzie Q, he reflected. Too much coffee. To many stakeouts. Too much violence.
As if any of that was possible! She wanted him to be warm ... tender ... mature ... like some 28 day aged USDA AAA steak. Well, he'd show her mature. Only mature people can handle a magnum like this ...
Enough Italian, he snarled to himself, as memories of the moment he had stormed out of the restaurant came flooding back. By this time the first lights were coming on in houses surrounding him, and sleepy voices were wondering aloud what all the ruckus was about. Hammer had already reached the main street though, and without checking either way, turned left. He ignored the industrial sounding horn and screech of tires as a fully loaded garbage truck swerved to miss him.
"Police vehicles have the right of way" he told himself, ignoring the truck as it swayed, overbalanced, and then rolled on its side spilling its load across the roadway.
Hammer's attention was on the horizon before him. Had it been elsewhere, had he noticed that the truck had not spilled garbage across the street, our story might have ended here.
Instead, his attention was on the sky. He thought it looked brighter in that direction, so this must be west. He wished the night would last forever. Kind of like a story that went on and on.
Inevitability, the sky began to brighten. Not only had he not outrun his problems, he hadn't outrun the dawn either. With increasing brightness, the streets came alive and gradually took on a more familiar appearance. Suddenly spotting a familiar landmark, Hammer swerved abruptly onto a cross street, raced half way down the block and pulled a sharp u-turn. He braked hard and came to a stop in front of a location he was certain Gun would recognize. The Precinct! The most familiar location in the city - for both of them.
And I'm even early. We've got plenty of time to tour everything. The booking desk. The cell block. The armory. The roof. Even Trunk's office had been the scene of many enthusiastic celebrations. The ceiling had holes from past celebrations! Every corner of the building held fond memories. Gun would surely respond to something ...
Inspector Hammer always tried arrive at the precinct parking lot, along with the catch of the day, by 8:00. Rush hour traffic didn't exactly rush, so they were usually able to keep up with him on the drive over. If they arrived a little short of breath, they were less inclined to nag about rights and phone calls.
The seafood he hooked and reeled in each morning needed to be processed. Unfortunately, instead of being turned into fish food, they were given a hearty breakfast. Eventually someone else would hear their pleas for a phone call and soon after that their lawyers would start trickling in. The more experienced among them would see that their lawyers arrived after lunch. Then, after a bit of legal manoeuvring, some calls to bail bondsmen and after all the relevant paperwork was completed and filed, they would likely all be out in time for dinner that evening. Hammer called it "Daycare".
He had, of course, offered suggestions he was certain would make the process more efficient. The easiest solution, he thought, would be to take all of his charges directly to holding cells, dispensing with unnecessary bureaucracy and paperwork. He could still hear Captain Trunk's response to that. His attempt to save time by photocopying the charge sheets and cut down on paperwork had gotten a similar response. No one listened. No one ever listened.
So, by the time he had finished explaining, patiently, to the booking officer the charges against each of his "catch"; by the time all of the necessary forms had been completed; by the time the last fish was in the tank and Inspector Hammer was able to report to work officially, he knew he would be, again officially, about half an hour late.
It wasn't that Hammer intended to arrive at his desk late. He just felt that real work should have priority over warming a chair in the bullpen. In fact, if you counted his hours in the park, instead of being berated for tardiness he should be getting overtime. He'd tried, but so far failed, to get Captain Trunk and his partner to see that perspective. But, Inspector Sledge Hammer was an optimist, so he looked for a bright side to the situation. Half an hour was enough time for his partner to finish her first cup of coffee and get any morning gossip out of her system before he arrived. Half an hour gave Doreau time to finish whatever it was she did on her computer, so that they could get down to the serious business of making the streets safe. And finally, after half an hour, Captain Trunk, would actually be excited to see him. Yes, mornings were worth looking forward to.
Hammer knew that crime was everywhere you looked, so he make it his business to always look. Both ways. Even just getting out of his car.
Nuts. Not even a jaywalker. He shrugged. And where's Doreau when I park perfectly? I didn't hit anything and there's at least two inches between my bumper and the "Handicapped" space.
He threw the door open. Tires screeched and a horn blared in indignation as someone swerved to miss his car door. Nonchalantly, he returned a wave to the now departing driver.
Friendly sort, he thought as he walked around his car, heading towards the Precinct Building. If there were more like him we'd have less road rage. .
He had time to take about three steps before there was an alarming CRASH of metal on metal from up the street. He swung around, Gun in hand, senses alert. At the intersection a car appeared to have collided with a garbage truck. The impact had left the car partly under the much larger, heavier vehicle. It kind of resembled the car that the guy he'd been waving to was driving.
"Well, someone wasn't watching where they were going. Do you suppose we should ...," he began, before a dull FWUMP interrupted him, and both vehicles erupted in flames.
"Well, that's clearly a job for the Fire Department."
He shrugged, holstered Gun, and climbed the stairs to the main doors.
Reaching the front door, he grasped the handle and pulled. Nothing. He pulled harder. Still nothing. He was about to try with both hands, when he noticed the sign. Open 7:30 - 8:00 Monday-Friday, Closed Weekends and Holidays.
The notion that the precinct was ever closed, was new .. foreign .. to Hammer. And, at this specific moment, unacceptable. He couldn't tour the building with Gun without being inside. This door was keeping him outside.
He grabbed it again with both hands, and shook it violently. He barely got a rattle. He tried again. He was considering more drastic options when, through the glass, he saw someone gesturing. He hesitated. The figure gestured more emphatically, coming closer, and pointing at the writing on the door.
"We're closed. There's nobody here. Come back later."
The words were muffled by the glass, but clear enough to be understood. Obviously the guard didn't recognize him. Well, that's no surprise. I don't recognize him, either. I've never been early enough ...
"Listen, flat .. worm!, I'm a cop. I work here."
The man cupped one hand behind his ear, as though he couldn't hear clearly.
"What's that? We don't need a new mop for work here."
"I'M A COP. I WORK HERE!" Hammer shouted, drawing Gun for emphasis.
Startled recognition showed in the guard's eyes. He reached out, unlocking the door and pushing it partially open.
"It's about time we got some recognition around here." Hammer commented to Gun, opening his jacket. "Wait a minute." Hammer was suddenly suspicious. This is too easy. He addressed the guard waiting inside. "Don't you need to see my ID? Or my badge?"
"Not necessary, Inspector. I recognize your Gun. And everybody knows the story about the crazy ..." Too late he paused, uncertain and a bit fearful at the expression on Hammer's face.
Hammer pulled the door all the way open, stepped inside and grabbed the guard by his uniform shirt. He lifted, until the guard was on tiptoes and he could look squarely into his wide eyes.
"Listen, groundhog, I know what I'm doing!. Ask my Gun."
"..I..I..m..mean .. the Inspector who talks to his Gun." The guard stammered, looking from Hammer, to Gun, and back.
Hammer released his grip. The guard slumped and took a step back.
"Next time," Hammer growled. "Show a little respect for my Amigo."
Without waiting for a response he stepped past the guard, heading for the elevator. The guard swallowed, hard, and wiped his brow.
It's true. He's every bit as crazy as the stories said.
He missed the faint curl of a smile on Hammer's face and the spring in Hammer's step. For a moment, the cares of the early morning were swept away by a flush of adrenaline.
"Was it good for you, too?" He asked Gun, as the stepped into a waiting elevator, and out of earshot..
Silence. Deafening silence. Well, no, not deafening. He could hear the ceiling fan in the elevator. Other than that, it was silent.
The adrenaline rush ebbed. He started to sweat. Then he shrugged and looked around as though afraid someone might be watching, before tucking Gun back into his shoulder holster. Touring the building no longer seemed such a great idea, but it was early and he had nothing else to do.
For the next 25 minutes Hammer and Gun rode the elevator. They prowled hallways. They climbed up and down stairs to get places the elevator didn't go. It was quite a little trip, but they finished well before 18:14. In fact, according to his watch, it wasn't even 07:00, yet.
They had been down to the basement. They had seen everything from the squalor of the unnaturally empty cell block to the neatly racked carbines in the armory. Now, as they reached the roof, Hammer realized that Gun wasn't just a companion and someone to talk to. Gun was also his partner, someone he counted on to have his back during confrontations.
"Remember this spot?" He drew Gun from his holster and turned slowly, Then he stepped calmly to the spot on which they had taken a stand. He gazed down on the expanse of rooftop.
Speaking of confrontations, this was a personal favourite, right here.
"We stood here. And down there? That's where Slag and his band of Devil worshiping cultists were holding Doreau, Cadet Ricky and Inspector Poppycock hostage. Hammer pointed to as he spoke.
"You, me and 40 pounds of dynamite. They didn't stand a chance. Remember the look on their faces? Good times, huh? Right?"
"Right?"
Hammer sighed. Still no response. He slipped Gun gently back into the holster. He patted it gently, regretfully. Then he pulled his jacket closed and turned towards the rooftop exit. As he re-entered the building, a thought crossed his mind.
Maybe, he mused, it was time to retire.
That thought soured his mood even more. His spirits were sinking faster than the elevator taking him down to the bullpen. The unnaturally loud chime as he arrived startled him, shaking him from his reverie. He stepped out, into a semi darkened lobby and turned toward the booking desk where Mayjoy was usually stationed. It was currently deserted and dark, lit only by the faint overhead glow of an EXIT sign. He didn't bother showing Gun the dismal sight.
It isn't always this depressing ...
Trust. Sometimes that was all a man had. Hammer trusted Gun, and his instincts. Doreau had Hammer's instincts on edge. That was about as far as you could trust a woman!
He'd found her, the next morning, busy doing what women do best, which was spreading rumors about the men in their lives. Captain Trunk was aiding and abetting her. And while Hammer was being distracted by those events, Scott had snuck into the precinct to spring Dominic from jail - again.
You can't trust anyone, his instincts screamed. Why would anyone think that any of this would make me happy?
He'd thought. In fact, right then, Hammer was wondering how much more happiness he could take. As if to test those limits, Scott asked him to be best man. Hammer didn't know what to say. But he had to respond somehow. Sure he would come! But he'd bring his real friend ... his Amigo ... the only one left in his life that he could trust.
If Scott went through with the wedding, his life was over. Suicide might not be illegal, but assisting in suicide was. Hammer needed to do something. He waited for an opportunity. Gun waited with him, too, all through the night, in the chair next to Scott. From there they watched as the evening slid from drinking and gambling into singing and other forms of debauchery. If marriage was hell then the bachelor party was surely purgatory. Hammer endured, suffering through every moment of it, only Gun's presence keeping him sane. Opportunity finally knocked in the form of a scantily clad harlot leaping out of the cake. He was sworn to uphold the law, and this was his chance!
It wasn't that unusual, he rationalized on the way back to the precinct. He'd been to other parties where the groom was locked securely to a ball and chain. Handcuffing all of them and marching them downtown wasn't that different. Reading them their rights was a mere formality.
Hammer sighed nostalgically. The booking area was more inviting when it was busy.
He turned, directing his gaze at what he knew from long familiarity was the hallway leading to the bullpen. Dim though it was, the EXIT sign almost directly overhead was ruining his night vision. The hallway appeared almost pitch black. The inky space revealed almost no details. He searched his memory. Except for a couple of vending machines on the right, the hallway should be empty. He stepped into the blackness, keeping left and making his way along the corridor towards the bullpen area. His footsteps echoed eerily.
This is starting to creep me out.
Each echoing step amplified his unease. The normally bustling space felt .. was, he reminded himself .. entirely empty. Unnaturally so.
I've seen busier hallways during a zombie apocalypse movie, he mused, adding one more reason to his list of reasons to never come in early ever again. How many times have I sat in a dark theatre and watched some fool going down a dark hallway, towards and dark room and thought .. "You fool, don't go down the dark hallway .. it won't end well"? It never ends well ...
His thoughts were adding chills to his uneasiness. And then, his fingertips brushed against something in the darkness. Instinctively he started to crouch, and then froze, left hand partly extended.
GUN! I touched Gun! By accident!
He exhaled as recognition came to him. He hadn't even been aware of his right hand creeping under his jacket. He exhaled, and as he rose from the partial crouch, experienced an instant of vertigo in the dark. His left hand extended involuntarily, and brushed against something definitely not in his jacket.
This time he went into a full crouch and Gun sprang into his hand. His eyes probed the darkness for an assailant.
The wall. He realized, exhaling again. His left hand extended again, confirming his conclusion. Hey, where there's a wall, there's a way ... to turn on the lights! If I can just find a light switch!
Hammer rose from his crouch again, this time using the wall to steady himself. His confidence returning, he stepped forward, feeling his way. Searching. Sure enough, after several paces, his hand encountered a switch. He flicked it upward ...
The lights flashed on, revealing the incongruous sight of a heavily armed police Inspector defending himself from an unarmed room. Instinctively, he started to make some excuse. Realizing there was no one to hear, he shrugged, and then realized that was just another excuse. That made him shrug again.
Enough indifference!
Looking around, seeing no one, he put Gun away.
The room was deserted, but he found the white antiseptic glare from the overhead lights was welcome, and comforting, none-the-less. He double checked that no officers were sleeping at their desks, ready to take him by surprise. Captain Trunk's office was clearly visible and similarly unoccupied, if the still dark windows were any indication. Most importantly, given his objectives, Doreau's chair was empty.
Still feeling slightly uneasy, he patted the outside of his jacket. The familiar feel of his Amigo beneath the fabric was reassuring. He glanced at the wall clock. It should be at least another 40 minutes before most other officers would begin to stream in. Distractions. Annoying distractions. None of them, not even Doreau, understood what Gun meant to him. Right now, he wasn't sure that Gun knew what Gun meant to him. The last thing he needed right now? Voices speaking in hushed tones. Sidelong glances. Snickers.
..Snickers..
When was the last time I ate? Too long. The hallway vending machines had Snickers, he was sure of it. And one way or another ... I need to get my blood sugar up, so I can think.
An hour of privacy, he thought. And a Snickers. What more could a sleep deprived, conscience stricken, police officer want?
Five minutes later he was chewing and reflecting on how easy it had been to get one machine to turn on its companions and give up an entire stash of Snickers. He'd already moved the cooperative machine to a closet for its own protection until he could arrange witness protection.
Meanwhile ... I guess they were right, I'm not myself when I'm hungry. "Myself" would never have considered retirement...
That thought pushed aside, he considered other things. Paper. He needed paper. And a pen. Usually he let Doreau handle the paperwork. Now he wasn't even sure he knew where the paper was kept. Or the pens.
Finding them sounds like work. Probably why they call it that.
He shrugged. There were those, he knew, who thought he'd shot his way to Inspector. That wasn't true, it had take three years. And marksmanship wasn't his only skill. He noticed things. Like the fact that paper often hid in drawers. He opened one in his desk. All he found was a collection of World War II cartridges, and a grenade, rattling noisily as it rolled.
I thought I'd lost this, he thought, recalling that it had been a gift from Doreau, their first Christmas office party together. Sure, it was supposed to be Secret Santa, but I knew, right away. I wonder if it works? She looked kind of panicked when I lost the pin in all the Christmas wrapping.. I think the paper clip was her idea ...
He carefully checked the paper clip he was temporarily using while he searched surplus stores for a replacement pin. The grenade looked safe, but it was too small to write on, even if he had a pen. Seeing nothing else useful in his current situation, he closed the drawer. Gently. The paper clip looked secure, but why risk wasting a good KABOOM? There had to be paper somewhere nearby.
Glancing around and assuring himself that no one would see him, he rose, slipped quickly around to Doreau's side of the desk. Pulling one drawer open, he discovered that this time his instincts had been correct. Quickly, he liberated a pad. He failed to find a pen, even after thoroughly searching all of Doreau's drawers. Finally he settled for a pencil. Congratulating himself on his unerring deductive skills, he returned to his chair and sat, silently contemplating the blank paper.
Where should I start? He wondered. At the beginning? That sounded familiar. What was the beginning of the problem? "T", obviously. Okay, then.
"THE PROBLEM", he scrawled across the top of the page, and then continued.
"My problem is ..." he began, before stopping and scribbling over it.
Pfffft ... he scoffed, scribbling over the note. I don't have a problem ....
Hammer chewed the pencil, hoping for inspiration. The problem, it occurred to him, was that he didn't usually see silence as a problem. The two things he most enjoyed about camping were booby trapping the perimeter with Gun, and silence. Until exploding booby traps punctuated the silence. Properly punctuated silence was the best kind.
Silence was cathartic! Hammer made a face.
I never say cathartic ...
Well, whatever it was, he'd often wished for more of it during his own marriage. And from Doreau. And Trunk.
Scott, he thought, should have remembered his right to remain silent. The things he'd said at the wedding would be used against him. Sooner or later ...
There were exceptions, of course. Some sea urchin, using silence as an excuse to avoid confession. His Amigo's unnatural silence. Silence of that sort was intolerable. Too much of a good thing.
Susan used silence to cover up what was really bothering her. Saying "Fine", and following it with silence - a sure sign that things were not "Fine"..
Maybe that was it! Was Gun covering up some real problem with silence? That meant that the problem isn't the silence, the problem was the problem causing the silence. What problems could Gun have? Why was Gun acting like a woman?
Hammer and Gun went way back. He remembered the first time his Father let him shoot Gun: September 8, at 1:30 am in their old rooming house on west 49th Street After everyone else was asleep. They used a makeshift target taped to the closet door. The first time, he had missed.
Don't be in a rush. Take your time. His father had advised. At first he didn't understand. But, as his experience grew, it became clearer. When they both relaxed, they came together. Not just as a team, as an effective team! Not only was that better for Gun, he found it was better for him, as well. And there was a bonus. If there was a more satisfying feeling than the one that came when some yogurt sucking piece of seaweed discovered enlightenment in the unblinking stare of Gun's muzzle, Hammer had yet to experience it. You couldn't rush something like that.
He knew Gun preferred 270 gr. rounds and thought that the 240 gr. variety were "diet", or "lo fat". Okay, in other words, but tasteless.
Gun preferred classical music to pop. Even better was classical music that had some POP! to it.
Gun preferred environmentally sensitive cleaners and oils. Gun was all about cleaning up the environment.
He knew Gun was born November 23, 1978 in Springfield Massachusetts. He knew nothing about Gun's family though. He didn't know how Gun and his father had become acquainted. His father had always been evasive on that. It must have been early on, while Gun was still a toddler. Come to think of it, Gun didn't open up a lot when it came to personal details. It was something else he thought they had in common.
When his father passed, Hammer inherited two things: his name and Gun. Since that day, he and Gun had been inseparable. They did everything together. They went everywhere together. Hammer felt no need to "open up" to his ex-wife, to some quack psychobabblist, or even Doreau. He shared everything with Gun. He assumed it was a two way street.
They were so close that the one time they had been separated, his life had fallen apart. His self-confidence had been shattered, his ability to function as a police officer placed in doubt. He knew that there were others, like Captain Trunk, the Commissioner, and Inspector Peabody of IA, who doubted his abilities as a police officer all of time. He did not share their concerns. He knew he was a cop. If this was England, that might have been enough. Here, it wasn't. This was the United States of America where; land of the free, home of the brave. If you wanted to stay free and brave, you needed to carry a gun. The bigger, the braver. With Gun, he was an armed cop. A dangerous cop. Gun was a part of that.
Hammer grimaced. Gun was part of him. Yet he'd never actually given any thought to Gun's gender before. Or Gun's age. Or to birthday parties. He didn't think Gun had a particular fondness for cake, but blowing away candles was another matter. Gun enjoyed that sort of thing.
What sort of issues would a ten year old Gun have? What issues did I have when I was ten? I had enemies, not issues! He growled under his breath. Okay, but if I had issues, what would those issues be? What was important to a ten year old?
Playtime. Rest. Food. An occasional bath. Don't I always give you regular exercise, a regular bath, and a comfortable place to sleep? Six round meals a day? Sometimes more. What else?
Someone to play with? Well, just as soon as Captain Trunk gets in and assigns us a case, we'll go outside and play. Promise!
Hammer considered other childhood concerns. For some reason John Kogan came to mind.
Teasing?
At the mere thought of someone teasing his Amigo, Hammer felt the blood throb in his temples.
Who? Who would DARE? Who does my Amigo know? Well there's me ..
Pffft!
Hammer eliminated himself immediately.
I'm not that crazy ... and I know what I'm doing. Who else does Gun know?
Hammer started a list. "Possible Enemies of Gun", he labeled it.
Susan. Scott. Doreau. Captain Trunk. The minister. The bartender. John Kogan.
He went back and scribbled over "bartender". Everybody loves the bartender! Should I feel guilty about taking a minor into a bar?
Hammer tried to recall if the penal code made any mention of underage guns in bars. Or if, as a service weapon, Gun could go anywhere. He made more notes, reminding himself to check.
Okay then.. One of the others must have said something offensive my Amigo. Which one? Think!
Witch? Of course! Susan! Susan's a witch. A witch who wants revenge.
Hammer rubbed his jaw, subconsciously aware of the ache there.
She's certainly capable of revenge. I broke her curse so she goes after my jaw.. And my Amigo? It made sense.
Hammer underlined her name. Twice. And then moved on.
Doreau? She was a woman! And a bit pushy sometimes. A pushy woman. Nothing unusual there. And Gun actually likes her.
Reluctantly, he crossed her off the list.
I have to be impartial. This about my Amigo, not me ...
Scott? Scott is a lawyer. I can understand Gun not talking to a lawyer. Yech. But I had nothing to do with Scott becoming a lawyer. And I'm not a lawyer. But I was talking to a lawyer. Is that why aren't you won't talk to me, Amigo?
Hammer patted his jacked gently and crossed out Scott's name.
Captain Trunk? No way! Nada!. Gun thought competition was good. And Trunk was the only one who could give Gun any competition in the "loudness" category. In fact, Gun had requested a louder loudener for Christmas, to even the playing field. And I got you one. I was waiting for Christmas to give it to you, but ...
He paused, hoping for a response. Silence.
Well, it was worth a try.
He moved to the next name.
The minister? I don't think you've even met the minister. Well then, you have no reason to like him either.
Hammer crossed Trunk off the list, but left the minister on it.
Guilty until proven innocent.
That left John Kogan. Kogan was miles away, locked up in maximum security. Still, if he had found a way to turn Gun against me, he'd use it ...
Hammer considered the names left on his list. Susan. Kogan. And the minister. He could find them, torture them and see if they knew anything. Susan was on her honeymoon ... somewhere. Kogan was in jail. Both were likely miles away, so he'd need time off to deal with them.
I've got plenty of vacation. I'll catch the Captain when he's in a good mood, and ask.
The minister was probably someone local.
I need a background check. And an address. Doreau can work on it as soon as she gets in. Or, as soon as I come up with a good reason. Whichever comes first. There might be a problem, though. Doreau could be a stickler for rules.
Maybe I've got it all wrong. Gun seemed so ... well balanced. Mature, beyond ten years. Maybe Gun years were like dog years. Who knew? Good question. Who would know who knew?
Hammer sighed. The deeper he dug, the longer the questions got. All he had was detours. And dead ends.
If "who" is a dead end, maybe I'll have more luck with "when". When did Gun last speak to me?
Hammer had never been one to reflect on his past. It was past, and he wished it would stay that way. Whether it was last night, his ex-wife, or his ex-partner now rotting in jail or his high school prom night ...
Yech, he thought, somebody cut my head off with an axe – just put me out of my misery.
He still felt that way. Time had not made his heart grow fonder.
Enough reflection!
There was no other way. He took a deep breath, and dove in ...
Gun was definitely giving me the silent treatment when we left the bar last night. Or was it this morning. When had Gun spoken before that? The bachelor party? Hammer smiled at that memory ... Yes, Gun had spoken and everyone had listened. Gun had certainly seemed enthusiastic as they brought the house down. Well, a part of the house anyway, he thought, reflecting on the satisfaction they both got from falling plaster.
Okay, now I'm getting somewhere! Sometime between the Roundup at the OK Bachelor Party and leaving the bar ... somebody offended my Amigo!
He racked his brain. He remembered the walk back to the precinct. He remembered marching everyone upstairs. He remembered reading everyone their rights. He remembered Susan ...
After that .. what? And when?
He rubbed his jaw. It was a sucker punch, he rationalized. It still hurt. After that .. things got a bit jumbled. His memory seemed hazy. He was pretty sure he remembered Doreau .. in his apartment!
Who let Doreau into my apartment? Who had a key? My landlady! And me! Why would my landlady let Doreau into my apartment? And what did she want there? He shrugged. Probably nothing important. Probably needed to make a phone call.
There was something else though. She hadn't left immediately, like he'd wanted.
She wanted ... to talk? But not on the phone? To me, then. Why me? Trying to get me to open up or be more sensitive? Or go to the wedding? That had a familiar ring! He definitely remembered throwing open the doors to a big room with lots of people inside. Either a church or an old west saloon. Was Doreau there? He thought so! He was sure of it. Why is my memory so foggy? Did I move to London?
He glanced around, uneasy.
This looked like the old precinct. This was his desk, with his antique ammo collection. There was Trunk's office. The water cooler. Doreau's spot ...
The uneasiness returned. Each time he tried to sort through jumbled half memories; each time he touched on Doreau, something nagged at him.
Doreau, Doreau and Doreau. It felt like a pattern. So far as he knew though, Gun didn't speak to Doreau, and Doreau didn't seem to believe that Gun could talk. It made no sense.
Either I'm missing something, or Doreau has gotten inside my head.
But the feeling refused to go away. He was missing something. Something important. He was more and more certain. Sometimes he seemed right on the edge of remembering, but each time it eluded him.
Hammer was gritting his teeth so hard that he bit the eraser off the pencil he was chewing. Still, he was resolute, determined to find the source of his problems with Gun. He swallowed hard and ... coughed!
The eraser, her realized, belatedly. Grimacing, he coughed again. It had stopped, lodged about half way down. He was pretty sure it was harmless. He needed to get to work. Making a face, he swallowed again, choking it the rest of the way down.
He rubbed his jaw ruefully; the ache was still there, but he forced himself to concentrate. Hammer sighed in resignation.
What was it about Doreau …?
Doreau … Ever since she had been assigned as his partner, Doreau had tried every means in her feminine arsenal on him.
Whether Doreau was pursuing a case, or trying to break down the defenses he had erected around himself, she was the most determined, persistent individual he had ever encountered. He could almost admire her for it. Except when, like the rookie cop from earlier this morning, her focus was Hammer. Then it wasn't determination, or persistence, it was nagging.
Had he let her constant nagging finally get inside his defenses?
However she had done it, somehow Doreau had ended up in his apartment. The more he thought about it, the more certain he was.
The only other times she had managed that feat, they had, technically at least, been working. On a case. Once, his apartment had even been the crime scene.
How cool was that?
This time though he didn't remember a case.
Well, if Doreau wasn't on a case, she was probably on my case. About what? What did I do this time?
He formed a line up of the usual suspects.
"Open up, Sledge." "Let someone in Sledge." "A home cooked meal Sledge." "Let's just spend some time together, Sledge."
It didn't help. He recognized all of them. In his mind he mimicked her phrasing and tone. He'd successfully rebuffed all of her attempts, keeping her at a professional distance. Although she more or less pulled her own weight in their partnership it was still his responsibility, as the man on the team, to protect her. Doreau might be good looking, and intelligent … and good looking … but she was still a woman, and therefore by definition the weaker link. Besides, he had learned the hard way the dangers of letting anyone get close to him. His first partner had betrayed his oath to uphold the law, forcing Hammer to arrest him. His wife had left him, and now was marrying his best friend. Hammer knew firsthand what it was like to let someone into his life, and then lose them. Hard things were easiest to deal with when there were no personal attachments to make them harder. So, while he had become accustomed to working with Doreau, and could even grudgingly admire her skills on the job, outside of the office they only met at the little bar where their fellow officers gathered to let off steam when they were off duty. Hammer was determined that they would never share more than a root beer and a job description. That he would never …
She was there. In my apartment. We must have been alone. Together. For no reason...
He hesitated, unable … or unwilling … to continue that train of thought. Random bits and pieces of forgotten memory came back.
He remembered Doreau being in his apartment.
He remembered ... the ache in his jaw.
He remembered Doreau leaving.
He remembered ... his aching jaw.
That's odd. I remember Doreau in my apartment, and I remember her leaving. Something must have happened in between. Some memory I'm blocking out. Why would I block something out? Unless... No way? Un-uh. Not a chance. Me? And her? Pfffft!
And then he remembered ... a single image, frozen in time. Doreau. Looking back over her shoulder as she left. The look on her face. Regret? Sadness? Pity?
Pity? Why would Doreau pity me? Susan is gone. Scot is gone. I'm free!
For some reason, that image, that moment, refused to go away. And for some reason, he felt ...
Pffffft! Sledge Hammer doesn't have feelngs ...
Something about that felt familiar, too. Instinctively, his hand reached for his gun. At moments like this, when he needed to confide in someone, Gun was always there. Gun always listened. And somehow, after telling his problems to Gun, he always felt hand brushed the lapel of his jacket and froze.
So why didn't I ...
Fragments suddenly flooded back. He remembered disagreeing with Doreau. He remembered Doreau leaving. He remembered Gun disagreeing with him. He remembered Gun taking Doreau's side. He remembered having words with Gun. He couldn't remember what words but he remembered being tempted tempted to wash Gun's barrel out with soap.
"We had words ..."
Hammer suddenly realized the significance of that observation.
Gun was still talking then! So that narrowed down "when"! What had Gun said ...?
Hammer rubbed his jaw. It still hurt. He rubbed harder, as if to force himself to remember. All he remembered was that it hurt. Not a single word came back to him. His memory was as clean as Doreau's desk.
That witch must have given me a concussion! She sure hit hard enough.
Pffft. Only a wuss thinks a woman can hit that hard. And I'm not a wuss. My jaw does hurt though...
Maybe Gun thinks I'm a wuss? Is that it?
Hammer was furiously adding to his notes. Every insight was a possible clue. With a start he realized that he now had several pages of notes. He didn't usually accumulate half a page of notes during a week's worth of homicide cases. Yet he felt no closer to a resolution than he had been an hour ago. Or on the dead end street. Or when he left the bar. And Doreau was definitely there. And she'll be here soon, he realized, glancing at the clock.
What happened between my apartment and the bar?
Whatever had happened, by the time he left the bar, Gun wasn't talking any more. He struggled to remember details.
I was talking with Doreau. What were we talking about? I don't remember. I remember getting up ... starting towards the door ... she was going to get a cab.
He remembered, as they were exiting, an overpowering need to .. fix .. something. Urgently. He just had no idea what. So turned to the one confidant that he trusted, ditching Doreau at the taxi. Only to discover that Gun wasn't speaking to him
Hammer glanced at his watch. 7:25. He had the feeling that he was running out of time. He had the impression, even though he had never personally witnessed it, that Doreau was usually among the earliest arrivals. Exactly how early, he had no idea. For just an instant, he actually hoped that she might not arrive today.
At that moment an elevator chimed its arrival. Hammer's heart was too busy pumping blood to sink, but his stomach apparently had some spare time and fulfilled the role in more than adequate fashion. Through the unnatural silence of the empty office he clearly heard the doors slide open. Then .. nothing. He cocked his head, and held his breath, listening. He had almost decided it was nothing when the footsteps began. A familiar, briskly paced clicking of high heels. Doreau! A wave of panic passed over him. If Doreau sees these notes...
He didn't finish the thought. He didn't actually know how Doreau would react, but he didn't want to find out, either. Quickly sweeping his notes together he covered the loose papers with a couple of case files. Not an ideal solution, he realized, but as long as she didn't know they were there, she couldn't ask questions, he reasoned. As an afterthought, he opened a third file, hoping to give the impression that he was busy, and discourage interruptions.
He was just in time. No sooner was he settled than the clicking stopped. Hammer judged that Doreau had reached the end of the hallway. From there she would have a clear view of the desk they shared. He felt her eyes on him, searching, and kept his head down, pretending to be studying the case file. The moment stretched, as Hammer knew it would. Suspense was building inside him, as the tension increased.
Could she really see right through him, as she had sometimes claimed? Hammer suppressed the urge to shrug his shoulders. The incriminating evidence was on his desk, under the file folders, so unless she could see through those, he should be safe. Still, as the moment dragged on, with no further indication of movement, doubts began to grow. The urge to look was increasing, becoming almost overpowering. Some animal instinct warned him not to meet her eyes. Whether because of what she would see in his, or what he would see in hers, he couldn't have said. Mostly because he'd given it no thought at all. In fact, he'd been so busy thinking about Gun that he'd given no thought to this moment. Somehow, in spite of having gone through this moment every day for two years, today seemed .. awkward. He had no idea what to say ...
Hammer was aware that the footsteps had resumed, and were closer now. From the corner of his eye he saw her pass by his desk, on the way to hers. The footsteps ceased. He was aware of the sound of her chair being pulled back; of her purse being hung over the chair back; then the rustle of her clothes as she sat down. The awkward silence grew to a pause that was clearly pregnant. He wondered what it would give birth to.
A drawer slid open. He could feel her eyes on him, accusing eyes. The drawer closed again, still without her speaking a word. Her chair was pushed back, followed by angry footsteps. He risked a quick glance, seeing only her back, as she marched away.
As soon as she turned the corner to the copier room, Hammer went into action. First he flipped the case files to one side. Then he gathered up all of his notes. He pulled open a desk drawer. Snickers! Quickly he closed it and opened another, looking for a spare file folder to hold his notes. Instead he found several boxes of magnum ammunition for Gun, more grenades, a mortar round and a selection of high calibre military ammo. He began to panic.
An obvious solution leapt to mind. Camouflage! Quickly he opened a file, deposited his notes inside, and reclosed it. No one would find them there. No one would ever looks for notes there.
He returned the case files to their original places. Relieved to have his notes safely out of any prying gaze, he turned his attention back to the open case file. Returning footsteps, showed he was just in time. He focused his attention on his desktop. A moment later, SHE was back at her desk, slapping a fresh pad of paper down and then deliberately grinding away at least half of a new pencil in an obvious case of gratuitous over-sharpening.
Ah-ha! That's where they keep it. He made a mental note. Doreau began tapping her pencil, as she was prone to do when she was thinking.
What is she thinking? Why hasn't she said anything?
He heard, and felt, a desk drawer open, pulled faster and harder than necessary. Three, then four files, were slapped down on her desk, before the drawer closed. A bit faster and harder, as though the desk had offended her, and was taking a beating.
That, he thought, was gratuitous. Save it for a sea urchin in interrogation!
Hammer began to fidget. Something didn't feel right. He regularly chided his partner for being for being "a gossip", or for her "nagging", but so far today she had been completely silent. Not so much as a "Good morning" had escaped her lips. She hadn't even asked what he was doing in so early. It was starting to feel like when his ex-wife was giving him the silent treatment. Except I'm not married to Doreau. Maybe this wasn't Doreau, it acts more like an alien in Doreau's body.
What do you say to an alien? Do they expect you to say good morning first?
Hammer started to say something and then bit back the words.
If I get her started, where will it go? What if she wants to know why I'm here early? What if she asks if I have a problem? I can't even tell her there is a problem. It would embarrass Gun, discussing it with an outsider. None of that will help with Gun's problem. She can't help anyway. She doesn't even believe ...
He couldn't help himself, he shrugged. It was best, he decided, to remain silent, and concentrate privately. He was a cop! He could work without a partner if he had to, but not without his gun.
Other officers would soon start to filter in, including his superior, Captain Trunk. One thing would lead to another and before you could say, "Hammer, get in my office, right now!" he would find himself out on the street with Doreau, expected to solve the city's social ills without a firearm on his side.
Speak of the Devil.
Hammer suddenly came alert. Footsteps! And someone whistling in the corridor. Both sounds stopped, leaving the office silent, except for a faint buzz from the lights.. After a brief pause the footsteps resumed. The whistling did not. He listened for identifying features. Male he judged. From the tempo, someone in an upbeat mood. And who could whistle.
How many early rising, whistling optimists do I know?
He narrowed it down to none. Aside from Doreau, who always seemed unnaturally cheerful. Unless she's cloned herself, I know where she is.
The footsteps stopped. with a brief, almost silent, curse.
Captain Trunk? What do you suppose has him all zippity do dah this morning? Of course! The man has finally lost it.
On any other morning, Hammer would have taken advantage of Trunk's good spirits to introduce him to his latest plans for proactive policing. Some nerdy astrology type had discovered that there were actually thirteen astrological signs, not the traditional twelve. It seemed obvious to Hammer that anyone born under the thirteenth sign would lead a very unlucky life. The fact that Ophiuchus was represented by a snake charmer only reinforced his suspicions that people born under this sign were destined to become career criminals, lawyers or even politicians. Hammer calculated that incarcerating all people born under the sign of Ophiuchus should reduce crime by 7.69%.
Even now, holding his tongue was difficult. As important as Hammer felt it was to keep Captain Trunk up to date on the latest research in criminology, he hesitated. His plate was already full, and not just with Snickers. He needed to give his full attention to solving Gun's problems, which wouldn't leave him the time he needed to pursue his suspicions, once Captain Trunk agreed. Which he would ... sooner or later.
Just as Hammer decided against pursuing the issue further, he became aware that Trunk was moving again. The sound of his footsteps receded towards his office. The lights came on, and Hammer heard the door click shut. Hammer's thoughts returned to more immediate issues.
He was aware that Doreau still had not spoken a word to him, but decided he knew the reason.
She is always here before me. Usually the first thing she says is something to nag me about being late – again. Since I had arrived before her this morning she is probably at a loss for words. It all made sense.
Gun was proving more difficult. He still didn't know exactly when Gun had stopped speaking. And now he couldn't even consult his notes. He couldn't consult with Gun. He couldn't shoot his gun. He tried to relax. He couldn't shoot his gun.
Hammer froze. He'd just experienced a sharp twinge of - vertigo? Déjà vu? Whatever you called it, it was like being in two places at once. Here .. thinking about shooting my gun .. and somewhere else .. thinking about shooting my gun.
But I'm here. So I'm not there. Where is there? When was I there? Why am I remembering ...? That's IT! I remember being somewhere! Where?
Questions raced through his mind as he tried to sort out his impressions. His fingers clutched the sides of his desk, knuckles whitening, as he tried to steady himself against a swirling maelstrom of thoughts.
Something about .. NOT shooting my gun? An order from Captain Trunk? No.. not NOT shooting ... UNABLE to shoot..
The distinction seemed important. Why wouldn't I be able to shoot my gun? I'd have to be .. sick. Or old. Or old and sick. But I won't be old for years. Is that..?
Another fragment of conversation came back to him. Doreau. Again.
"I'd rather be dead."
"I'm afraid you already are."
Am I dead? Is that why nobody is talking to me? Is that why she looked at me like that?
The haunting look in her eyes haunted him again. Hammer pinched himself. Hard. And leapt from his chair.
"EEEEEYOW!" He exclaimed, rubbing his thigh.
Hammer was aware, of course, that other officers had started to trickle in. And more than aware that most of them were now staring. Two dove under their desks, seeking cover. Only Doreau appeared unperturbed. Hammer shrugged, and did his best to appear invisible. Or, if not invisible, at least innocent. One by one they went back to what they were doing.
"Nope," he muttered under his breath. "Not dead. Glad we got that cleared up."
The trickle of officers picked up, as the office began to fill. Several took note of Hammer, and checked to make sure their watches were working. He'd even heard footsteps approaching a couple of times, but at a glare from Doreau they retreated. Once she had to wave frantically before someone took the hint. Odd, he thought, she's usually more chatty. He shrugged. Probably so I wouldn't hear her gossiping.
It left him to himself, more or less. Mostly less, he felt. He was never going to get the kind of privacy he needed to consider Gun's problem properly when everyone stopped and stared at the least yelp of pain.
Inactivity didn't suit Inspector Hammer. Between cases, when he was stuck at his desk, he liked to practice with Gun. And sometimes to consult with Gun. Or offer Doreau insights from his years of experience. Today, Gun wasn't talking and he didn't want to get Doreau started. He just didn't feel ...
He wasn't good at describing his feelings either. Nor did he often have any reason to. Today was like every other day, in that respect at least. Still, he needed something to occupy his mind and his hands, or he was going to strangle Inspector Avraham, who was questioning a witness in sing song tones that reminded him of one of Doreau's opera cassettes. He was so distracted that he totally missed Inspector Perkins ...
He caught himself unconsciously reaching for Gun, and pulled his hand back as though scalded. He swing his chair innocently to one side, and then the other, checking to see if anyone had noticed. The only thing he observed that appeared out of the ordinary was a change in the blinds obscuring Trunk's office.
Waiting for a chance to yell at me if I take Gun out inside again?
Hammer reached for the billy club under his desk instead and took a couple practice swings. The activity got his blood flowing and helped him think.
If we don't catch a good case today, maybe we can find some metro sexual guys to chase around the financial district after work? Now that was the sort of activity that might get Gun's interest! For the first time all morning, Hammer smiled to himself. Finally he was making progress. And if it wasn't progress, at least it promised to make the evening entertaining.
At that moment Doreau's chair made a familiar squeak. The same sound it always made when she was putting her shoes on to go somewhere. Although Hammer approved of women wearing shoes, he didn't understand why they chose uncomfortable shoes. You didn't see men kicking their shoes off when they sat down, did you?
She rushed past, obviously in a hurry, and Hammer glanced over his shoulder to see her greet Officer Daley. Oh great, he groaned. This is a Precinct, Doreau, not a dormitory! Hmmm, that's pretty good. Too bad Doreau missed it. I should write it down, for later ...
Hammer glanced around. Doreau was gone. No one seemed to be watching. He slid the pad of paper over and scribbled another note. While he was doing that, something caught his olfactory attention. Perfume? Doreau's perfume! He realized why the scent seemed familiar. Doreau had a weakness for perfume. What about Gun? Did Gun have any favorite scents? Was Gun female? If Gun wasn't female, would Gun be insulted? I would! Hammer was about to shoot down the idea when inspiration hit.
Cologne! I do have a couple of weeks of vacation coming, and we haven't visited Germany in a while, he mused. After we get through with Susan, and Kogan, I'll suggest it.
Hammer glanced around again. Doreau was still nowhere to be seen, but that wouldn't last forever. He looked at the folders on his desk uncertain, now, which one held his earlier work. He had to hide these, before she came back and took note. He winced. That was bad, but things would get worse ... unless ...
In one smooth motion he opened his ammo drawer again. Plenty of room! He tore the sheet free, dropped it into the desk drawer, and closed the drawer. He looked away, pretending nothing had happened, in case anyone thought they had seen something. Of its own accord, the drawer slowly slid open again. Hammer used one foot to push it closed. It slid open again.
Without thinking, Hammer's lips curled into a snarl as he drew his Magnum and pushed the drawer closed again. This time it stayed closed.
"What are you doing Hammer?" A voice sounded from somewhere across the bullpen.
"Nothing." Hammer responded, and went back to doing just that.
It was bad enough that other officers thought he had a problem. Or that he was a problem. He couldn't let them see that Gun had a problem. They all thought he was crazy for talking to his sidearm; they would definitely call in the Department shrink if he told them that Gun wasn't talking to him any more. Hammer shivered, remembering the last time he'd been forced to visit the Department shrink. He shivered again, thinking about what would happen if someone dared send Gun to a shrink. Gun would not appreciate being turned into a derringer.
Whatever he did today, he resolved, he would do it quietly.