Roland Anderson's Story

Driving through the dead streets of the small city wasn't exactly an easing feeling for Roland. He was tired, just having gotten off a plane and into his rental car. He caught a night flight from New York to Fairway, arriving in the morning. Now he was driving around the streets, looking for the police department; he was supposed to report in and get his briefing.

He had been reassigned here due to the necessity of someone with more experience involving the more "unpleasant" parts of detective work: basically, they needed a big city homicide detective. The more hands and brains, they figured, the better chance they had in catching the guy. Marlon Bulle was the sick bastard's name. Roland had engrained it into his memory, memorized his whole file, did everything but make the case personal.

The streets were practically ghostly in appearance; not much traffic for a morning. At least there wasn't a hellhole of cars to drive behind, and he could make it to his new assignment faster. He drove with an almost absent-mindedness, following the road signs subconsciously, as if he knew where he was going already. Grey and silent was the morning, and it bugged Roland to no end.

Before he knew it, he was parked in front of the precinct, unbuckling his seat belt and headed for the door. He stopped to hold the door open for a woman carrying a box of files; Probably a clerk, he thought. He waited in the lobby, waited for someone to notice him. Sure enough, the same woman occupied the office behind the glass. "Oh," she said, "Yes, may I help you?" Roland cleared his throat, adjusting his tie. The damn thing was irritating him to no end.

"Yes, my name is Roland Anderson. I'm the homicide detective from the NYPD." The woman stared at him, as if confused. "I'm on reassignment here," he said, more like a question. "I know why you're here, detective. We just didn't expect you so soon." With that, she picked up the phone, getting her chief on the line. "Sir, the detective from New York is here," she said. When she hung up, she instructed Roland to the back of the building, buzzing him in. "Welcome to Fairway, detective."

Right, he thought.

Leila turned on her small fan desk to cool herself off. Her desk was farthest from the vent, and her work area often got really hot. She drummed her fingers on one of the novels littering her desk. She slid it into her bag, figuring that she'd read it later. Suddenly, her sister barged through the doors of the police office. "Leila!" Cecila growled. She walked over to her desk in a huff. "Leila, give it back!" Her face looked bare, mainly because she wasn't wearing her glasses. She crossed her arms. "I don't have it!" Leila protested. Cecila snorted and fumbled around, then grabbed Leila's bag. She blindly shuffled through it before pulling out red frames. She snorted. "You act like you're five!" Cecila hissed, framing her face with the glasses. "I don't know how you got to be a detective!" Cecila stormed off without saying another word.

Cecila drove through town before coming to a slow stop in front of a tall, glass building. She stood up straight and calmly walked through the doors. The woman at the front desk offered a small smile, but Cecila blew past her and walked into another room. She dusted off her lab coat and cautiously approached a group of people in lab coats. They looked up with timid expressions. "What? Is it done yet?" They nodded and handed a small sliver square with a screen in the middle. She turned it on and nodded. "Good enough," Cecila muttered.

Leila looked up to see a man walk through the front towards the chief's office. Everyone went silent and watched him. It was a small police office, and not a lot of people walked through that they didn't know well. Leila rolled her eyes at the gawking faces and took a small bite of her half- finished doughnut. She tapped on her keyboard and did a little more desk work. She then leaned back in her desk chair.

A cop car drove out in front of the precinct. Out came an officer and a twenty-something that looked like a slacker. He dressed like he was still in High School. Baggy pants, hoodie, floppy bangs. The whole deal.

The officer lead him inside. "Anyone know where Mark is? He ain't pickin' up and I've got a guy here with information on the Bulle murder case." he said, voice gruff. "And if you can, we need someone to get in touch with Mark! I've been trying to get him for an hour! I got no idea where he's at."

The young man looked slightly uncomfortable, and had his hands stuffed into his pockets. He shuffled in his spot.

Leila looked up from her desk. Her chair then toppled backwards. "OOF!" She then giggled at little and stood up and lifted her chair up and set it upright. "Eh, I'm not sure. I'm a little distracted, Cecila came in and yelled at me..." Leila shrugged. "So what kind of information does he have?" She asked curiously, wondering what a person his age would know anything about Bulle. He didn't look to be the kind of person with information, then again, she became a part of the police force, so she guessed that anything was possible.

Cecila boxed a group of the small devices. "Alright, pack the rest of these up and put these in the trailer, I'l make the shipment," Cecila instructed to the group of nervous interns. THey scuttled away and did their work. Cecila got in the car connected to the trailer. "Is the trailer ready?" SHe asked. "YEs it is!" One of the teenagers proudly announced. Cecila rolled her eyes. "I'm getting breakfast afterwards," She muttered as she drove off towards the station. Cecila carried multiple boxes in. "Cool! What cool tech stuff did you bring to us this time?" Leila grinned. Cecila rolled her eyes and opened the box. "Cool! Now what are they?" Cecila slapped her forehead.

Standing in the chief's office, Roland was damning the suit and tie he was sporting: black with white pinstripes, white collared shirt, with a plain crimson tie. And it was stifling. It was warm in the office as is, and the suit served to try to choke what little life Roland had in him this morning. The chief had Roland's file in his hand, reading it fervently.

"So, how many cases have you worked, detective Anderson?" he said, without warning. Roland wasn't surprised, however. He answered: "Forty-six homicides, twenty cases of manslaughter, thirteen murder-suicides, and five mass shootings." The room was quiet a minute, then the chief leaned forward, outstretching his arm, hand open. "Welcome aboard detective."

Roland gripped the man's hand firmly, without a smile. He was tired, otherwise he would be much more accommodating with his cheerfulness, what little of it his work hadn't stolen, anyway. When their hands separated, the chief instructed Roland to take a left from here to reach his own office. "We'll have to get you a nameplate, but, it'll do for now." Roland nodded, taking a box of files the chief had procured and proceeded to his destination.

He became aware of the people watching him, wondering about him. He shook it off. There would be time to meet people later; for now, he had to settle in, get comfortable with the case.

The office wasn't very big, but it sufficed for the work he would do: A brown elbow-shaped desk, bending at a right angle, a computer- an old model - sat on one side. There was a black office chair sitting behind the desk. The room had no window and a singular overhead florescent light. Roland set the box of files on the desk and rounded his way to the chair to take a seat. The chair creaked, and wasn't very comfortable. He felt cramped in here.

Home sweet home, he thought.