@detectiverickitubbs
There is something about dim rooms that makes it a bit easier to talk—maybe because you do not have to see someone’s face clearly and watch all the tiny expressions contorting it as they process what you say. Whatever it is, Troy has had just enough pints to loosen his tongue and unburden the issue that has been nagging at him for weeks.
“You know…back when I was a Detective Sargent, I had a governor named Barnaby. Great man but he had a bit of a taste for breaking into peoples’ houses and going through their things without getting a warrant first. I pointed it out a few times…but that’s beside the point.” He took another sip of his beer. “This one time we got caught and the owner obviously wasn’t happy to find us there. She asked Barnaby what our superiors would say if she reported us….”
He trailed off again, studying the amber liquid still filling half his glass. He was not drunk yet—he knew that very well. He had a good head for alcohol—maybe too good a head for it if he was in the mood to be honest with himself. Introspection, however, had never been Troy’s strong suit. Shoving those pesky thoughts aside, he continued unfolding his story to his companion. “Barnaby told her that our supervisors wouldn’t say much if she did—when the chips were down, we all closed ranks, you know?” He paused for a second before shaking his head.
“Barnaby was more right than he thought—police are great at closing ranks to protect their own. He just…never mentioned what happens when you find yourself on the outside of those ranks because you wouldn’t fall in line.” Moodily, he went to finish his beer, hesitated, and put the glass back down. The alcohol was not really helping, and he could not spare time for a headache in the morning. He had more important things to do….+
