Chapter 7: Good Reasons
The precinct had not changed during my twelve-day absence.
The same beige paint peeled near the radiators. The same prevention posters covered the hallway walls, some old enough to display telephone numbers that probably no longer existed. The coffee machine purred near the break room with the regularity of a sick engine, producing a black liquid whose exact origin no one seemed to know.
Behind the front desk, telephones rang, printers swallowed paper, and a handcuffed man explained with great conviction that he had not stolen the television he had been arrested while carrying.
Everything was identical.
It was the looks that had changed.
The conversations did not stop completely when I entered the roll call room. They merely slowed, as though several people had suddenly needed to choose their words more carefully.
Some officers greeted me with a nod.
Two came to shake my hand.
An officer I barely knew placed his palm on my shoulder and told me I had done good work.
I thanked him.
I did not know what else to say.
The expression good work could mean many things. Surviving. Protecting Donnelly. Shooting accurately. Killing Marcus before he killed someone else.
I had no desire to ask him which one.
Frank walked beside me, wearing his security guard uniform marked by the shots that had killed him. His cohesion had been fully restored for several days, but he continued studying every face as though trying to determine who had decided I was a hero and who thought I should no longer be wearing the uniform.
"The guy near the window is looking at you like you won a championship," he murmured.
I placed my bag beneath a chair.
"He doesn't even know me."
"That has never stopped people from having an opinion. Often, it helps."
I raised my eyes toward the assignment board to give the impression that I was not talking to empty space.
Sergeant Brennan stood near his desk, wearing a white shirt stretched across his massive shoulders. A stack of reports occupied his left hand. In the other, he held a red pen with which he seemed capable of correcting a spelling mistake or ending a career.
His gaze passed over me when I sat down.
He made no special comment.
I was grateful.
Donnelly entered thirty seconds before roll call began, a coffee in one hand and two small paper bags in the other. His coat was still damp from the morning rain, and his dark hair had been pushed back without much conviction.
He sat beside me and placed one of the bags in front of my notebook.
"A bagel," he announced while removing the lid from his coffee. "Because your mother called me."
I slowly turned my head toward him.
"My mother called you?"
"She believes the department feeds you poorly."
"The department does not feed me."
"According to her, that is precisely the problem."
Frank leaned over to examine the bag.
"Your mother recruited Pat."
"I don't know which part is more worrying," I murmured.
Donnelly raised an eyebrow.
"What is?"
"Nothing."
He took a sip of coffee, then his gaze dropped toward my side. The bandage beneath my shirt was much lighter than the one from the previous week, but the skin still pulled when I breathed too deeply or turned too quickly.
"How are you?"
"It still pulls a little."
He continued looking at me.
"And the rest?"
I knew what he meant.
My nights were no longer entirely divided into sequences of three gunshots. That was already progress. I still sometimes woke with my hand against my side and the taste of blood in my mouth, although there was never actually any there.
"I'm sleeping better."
"Is that the answer of a patient or the answer of a police officer trying to avoid another appointment with the psychologist?"
"A little of both."
Donnelly slowly nodded.
He did not smile.
"Then today, you avoid journalists, shootings, and existential crises."
He tossed me the car keys.
I caught them with one hand.
The movement pulled slightly against my left side, but I showed nothing.
"In that order?"
"Journalists are generally the hardest to lose."
Frank smiled.
"I missed him."
Brennan struck the edge of his desk once.
Roll call began.
He distributed assignments, reminded us about several reports of vehicle theft, and announced that a television crew might still be parked near the precinct. He only said my name when confirming that I was returning to patrol with Donnelly.
No one applauded.
I was even more grateful for that.
When the officers began dispersing, Brennan motioned for me to approach.
His improvised desk was covered in files, empty cups, and a small frame containing a photograph of a woman and two teenage girls. He waited until the room was almost empty before putting down his pen.
"You have been declared fit for duty. That does not mean you have to pretend nothing happened."
"I'm not pretending."
"Good."
He crossed his arms.
"You remain with Donnelly. No special assignments, no tactical unit, and no overtime for one week. If you need to step out of a call, you say so."
"Understood."
His gaze hardened slightly.
"And if anyone congratulates you for killing Bell, you do not break his nose."
"I wasn't planning to."
"I'm also speaking to Donnelly."
Pat, still standing a few meters away, raised his coffee.
"I never break noses without completing the appropriate form."
Brennan stared at him.
"Out."
We left the room.
I had barely slipped the bagel into my bag when a door opened at the far end of the hallway.
Two uniformed officers were escorting a handcuffed teenager toward the temporary holding cells.
He wore an oversized gray sweatshirt whose right sleeve was covered in dust, dark jeans, and white sneakers marked with mud. Short braids framed his forehead. A small red cut ran across his left cheekbone, probably caused by a fall or by his contact with the ground during the arrest.
His face seemed familiar before I even understood why.
The eyes.
The same as Marcus's.
Not the same expression.
In the hallway of the Hawthorne Houses, Marcus's eyes had been widened by pain, fear, and lack of air. The teenager's were narrowed, fixed, filled with anger so concentrated it seemed cold.
He stopped when he saw me.
One of the officers pulled lightly on his arm.
"Keep moving."
The teenager did not move.
"That's him."
His voice was deeper than I would have expected.
The second officer looked in my direction.
"You know him, Beaumont?"
I had never met Darius Bell.
I had seen his name in the articles and his face in a family photograph published after Marcus's death. He had stood beside his brother, a head shorter, with one hand raised toward the camera to stop himself from being photographed.
"I know who he is."
Darius clenched his jaw.
"I want to talk to him."
The officer holding him sighed.
"What you want is a lawyer."
"I want to talk to him."
He raised his handcuffed wrists in my direction.
"He killed my brother. He can at least listen."
The hallway seemed to grow narrower.
Several people turned their heads.
A telephone continued ringing behind the desk, but no one hurried to answer it.
Donnelly positioned himself slightly in front of me. Not enough to hide me. Enough to remind everyone he was there.
"What did he do?" he asked the officer.
The man quickly consulted his notebook.
"Weapons possession. Stop at the corner of 128th and Lenox. Mercer found a handgun in his bag."
Darius abruptly turned his head toward him.
"He put it there."
The officer looked toward the ceiling.
"You can tell your lawyer."
"I'm telling the one who killed Marcus."
Donnelly looked at me.
His expression contained neither an order nor a prohibition.
Only a question.
I took a slow breath.
The scar above Marcus's lip returned with a clarity I had not requested.
"He's a minor," I said. "I can't question him."
"I'm not asking you to question me," Darius replied.
His voice trembled slightly, but he continued staring at me.
"I'm asking you to listen."
Brennan came out of the roll call room.
His gaze moved over the handcuffs, the officers, Donnelly, me, then returned to Darius.
He assessed the situation in a few seconds.
"Put him in an interview room. Not an interrogation room. Contact his attorney and his mother."
The first officer hesitated.
"He refuses to give us her number."
"Then find it in the file."
Brennan turned his eyes toward me.
"Beaumont, with me."
∗ ∗ ∗
Brennan's office seemed smaller with the door closed.
A narrow window overlooked an inner courtyard filled with air conditioners and pipes. Half-lowered blinds cut the gray morning light into horizontal bands across the stacked files.
Donnelly remained standing near the door.
Brennan sat behind his desk and looked at me long enough for me to begin feeling the weight of my vest across my shoulders.
"You are not the investigator assigned to this case."
"I know."
"You are personally connected to the suspect's family."
"I know."
"And if you continue answering 'I know' to every sentence, I'm going to begin understanding why your mother complains."
I closed my mouth.
Frank stood near the window, his hands in his pockets. The shadows from the blinds passed through his silhouette without stopping.
Brennan joined his hands.
"Darius Bell was arrested less than an hour ago. The weapon was discovered by Leon Mercer."
Donnelly straightened slightly.
"Mercer from anti-crime?"
Brennan nodded.
"The same."
The name was not unfamiliar to me.
Leon Mercer had almost twenty years of service, several commendations, and a reputation as an effective officer. I had heard officers describe him as someone who knew every gang, every stairwell, and every family in the sector.
Some spoke his name with admiration.
Others with the caution reserved for men who produced results whose methods no one wanted to examine for too long.
I did not know Mercer well enough to decide which group to trust.
"Darius wants to speak to me," I said.
"Yes. And I want to know why."
Donnelly crossed his arms.
"He can speak to Beaumont in the presence of his attorney and a Youth Investigator. No questions about the facts without their approval."
Brennan looked at Pat.
"You think that's a good idea?"
"No," Donnelly admitted after a silence. "But he may not speak to anyone else."
Brennan shifted his gaze toward me.
"You listen. You promise nothing. You do not defend your shooting. You do not try to obtain a statement."
"Understood."
"And if it becomes personal, you leave."
I nodded.
Frank remained near the window.
"He probably hates you," he murmured.
I know.
The response left mentally by reflex.
The words passed between us with unusual clarity.
Frank abruptly looked toward me.
Since our rooftop training, we had been able to exchange a few thoughts over short distances, but the result remained inconsistent. Some words arrived like foreign ideas that were clearly identifiable. Others disappeared into a mixture of images, emotions, and sensations that my brain then tried to translate.
Frank concentrated.
That is not a reason not to go in.
The thought was less clear than mine, but understandable.
I looked at Brennan.
"I'll listen."
∗ ∗ ∗
The interview room was at the end of a quieter hallway, far from the adult cells.
The walls had been painted pale blue. A round table occupied the center, surrounded by four plastic chairs. A poster depicting a sailboat hung crookedly above a radiator.
The choice of decoration seemed based on the idea that a seascape would make people forget the door could only be opened from the outside.
Darius sat facing the interior window.
The handcuffs had been removed. Red marks encircled his wrists, and he absently rubbed one of them with his thumb.
To his right sat Rachel Mendoza, the court-appointed attorney who had just been assigned to him. She was in her thirties, with black hair pulled into a low ponytail and a long green coat draped over the back of her chair. A thin file rested in front of her.
Youth Investigator Helen Cho stood near the wall. Short, dressed in a gray suit and flat shoes, she had calm features and a gaze that gave the impression she noticed every change in breathing.
Mendoza stood when I entered.
"Officer Beaumont."
She held out her hand.
"My client wishes to speak with you. I explained that you are not assigned to his case and that this conversation does not replace an interview with the investigators."
"I understand."
She kept hold of my hand for another second.
"I also explained that you were the officer involved in his brother's death."
Darius raised his eyes toward me.
"I already knew that."
Mendoza sat again.
I took the chair farthest from Darius, leaving the table between us.
Frank remained near the door.
For several seconds, no one spoke.
Darius studied me as though looking for a difference between the man in the newspapers and the one sitting in front of him.
I did not know what he expected to see.
Guilt.
Fear.
A monster.
Perhaps only someone who would not look away.
"You watched him die?" he finally asked.
Cho made a slight movement.
"This conversation does not concern the circumstances of your brother's death."
Darius did not look at her.
"I'm not talking to you."
I felt Mendoza preparing to intervene.
I raised one hand slightly.
"Yes."
The word remained suspended in the room.
Darius clenched his fingers beneath the table.
"Did you talk to him?"
I saw my gloves covered in blood again.
Marcus's face turned toward me.
His mouth searching for air.
"I told him to stay with us while we tried to stop the bleeding."
Darius's breathing grew louder.
"Was he scared?"
I took my time answering.
A cautious sentence would have been easier.
I could say I did not know. That Marcus had not said anything. That his medical condition made any conclusion impossible.
It would be legally clean.
Humanly, it would be cowardly.
"Yes," I said. "I think he was afraid."
Darius's anger cracked for one second.
Behind it was grief. Raw. Poorly contained.
And something resembling shame, as though he blamed himself for wanting to know his brother's final moments.
Mendoza placed one hand near his elbow without touching him.
Darius swallowed with difficulty.
"Do you regret it?"
I knew my answer could end up in a report, a complaint, or an article. Pike would probably have advised a narrower formulation.
But caution could become a form of cowardice when it served only to avoid a human question.
"I regret that he died," I answered. "I do not regret stopping him from shooting my partner."
Darius leaned back in his chair.
The anger returned to his eyes.
He did not shout.
"So you have nothing to say to me."
"I'm not going to lie to you so that you forgive me."
"I'll never forgive you."
"I know."
This time, the word was meant for him.
Darius lowered his eyes toward the table.
His shoulders trembled slightly beneath his sweatshirt.
"Then listen," he murmured.
I did not move.
He raised his head.
"The gun wasn't in my bag."
Mendoza intervened immediately.
"My client denies possessing the weapon discovered during his arrest."
Darius gave her an irritated look.
"I can speak."
"Yes," she answered calmly. "And I can stop you from getting accused of three additional things while you do it."
He exhaled loudly, then returned his attention to me.
"Mercer stopped me near the court. He said he wanted to talk. He knows my mother. He knew Marcus."
"Do not answer any specific questions without consulting me," Mendoza reminded him.
I joined my hands on the table.
"I'm not going to question you. Just say what you wanted to tell me."
Darius nodded.
"He asked whether the Kings had approached me. I said no."
Mendoza turned her head slightly toward him.
"And was that true?"
Darius hesitated.
She looked at him firmly.
"You do not have to answer."
"They talked to me," he finally admitted. "But I didn't do anything."
His knee began moving beneath the table.
"Mercer took my bag. He put it on the hood of his car. His camera was on, then he said the battery was acting up. He turned me against the wall."
He raised his eyes toward me.
"When he opened the bag afterward, he had a gun in his hand."
Cho moved away from the wall.
"You saw him place the weapon?"
Mendoza stiffened.
"Investigator."
Cho raised one hand.
"You're right. I withdraw the question."
Darius continued looking in my direction.
"I didn't see him do it. I was facing the wall. But the gun wasn't there before."
"Why would Mercer do that?" I asked.
The question escaped before I could stop it.
Mendoza gave me a sharp look.
"Officer Beaumont."
"I withdraw the question."
Darius answered anyway.
"Because he thinks he knows what's good for us."
He leaned over the table. His eyes were red, but his voice remained low.
"Cops like him don't think they're bad. They think they're our fathers. He already told me Marcus would end up dead or in prison. Now Marcus is dead, so he decided it was my turn to go to prison."
Frank slowly crossed his arms.
He believes it.
I received less the words than the conviction accompanying them.
That proved nothing.
A person could be sincere and wrong.
They could also lie while believing they were defending a more important truth.
"Why me?" I asked.
Mendoza looked at me but did not interrupt this time.
Darius briefly stared at my hands, then my face.
"Because you killed Marcus and still told the truth in front of everyone."
I remained motionless.
"What truth?"
"That you shot him."
"I had no way to hide it."
"You could've said you didn't remember."
His mouth twisted bitterly.
"People say you're a good cop. I wanted to see if that meant anything."
I did not know what to do with that trust.
It was neither forgiveness nor admiration.
It felt more like one final attempt before Darius decided all police officers were the same.
"I can't handle your case," I explained. "I'm too involved."
His expression closed.
"Then why did you come?"
"Because you asked to speak to me."
"What good does that do?"
I looked at Mendoza, then Cho.
"I can pass on what you said. Nothing more for now."
Darius lowered his eyes toward his wrists.
"Then pass it on properly."
∗ ∗ ∗
Leon Mercer entered the precinct shortly before noon.
I saw him from the back of the report room.
He was taller than in the photographs displayed near the commendation board. Around forty-five, with a shaved head, a short mustache already gray at the ends, and a broad body that filled his uniform without looking heavy.
He walked with the confidence of a man who knew every hallway, every supervisor, and every shortcut in the building.
Two officers stopped him to talk.
One gave him a friendly slap on the shoulder.
Mercer smiled, but his gaze continued scanning the room.
He noticed me.
His smile slowly disappeared.
He approached without hurrying. A faint smell of rain and coffee came with him.
"Beaumont."
"Officer Mercer."
He looked at the report in front of me.
"You working on Bell's arrest?"
"No."
"He asked to speak to you."
Several officers around us continued writing, but I felt their attention shifting toward the conversation.
Donnelly stood near the printer.
He turned slightly.
"He spoke to me in the presence of his attorney and Investigator Cho."
Mercer nodded.
"He told you I planted the gun."
It was not a question.
"He disputes the discovery."
Mercer ran his tongue along the inside of his cheek.
"He lost his brother. Now he's looking for someone to blame."
"His attorney will examine the evidence."
"You believe what he told you?"
I closed the file.
"What I believe does not matter."
A flash of irritation passed through his eyes.
"Before becoming the journalists' favorite cop, maybe you should understand how this neighborhood works."
The sentence was spoken softly enough to retain the appearance of advice.
Donnelly left the printer.
"Leon. You have a report to finish."
Mercer looked at Pat.
"I'm talking to the rookie."
"I know. That's why I'm reminding you that you have a report."
Mercer's face closed.
He turned his attention back to me.
"The kid had a gun. The Kings recruit the brothers, cousins, and friends of the people they lose. Marcus is dead, so Darius becomes useful. That's how it works."
"Then the evidence will show it."
Mercer leaned slightly closer.
"The evidence does not always show things in time."
The sentence remained between us.
It could have been an observation.
A warning.
Or something closer to a confession that its author did not yet recognize as one.
Mercer straightened and left.
Frank appeared beside my desk.
His expression contained nothing amused.
"He's afraid."
"Of what?"
"That you'll keep looking."
Donnelly sat on the corner of my desk.
"What exactly did Darius tell you?"
I summarized the conversation without giving the details concerning Marcus's final moments.
Pat listened without interrupting, his arms crossed.
"Mercer is decorated," he finally said. "He knows the sector better than half the gang investigators."
"That doesn't mean Darius is lying."
"No."
He took the arrest report.
"And it doesn't mean Mercer is lying."
We began with what was accessible.
The report stated that Mercer had noticed Darius near a basketball court known to serve as a recruitment point for the East Court Kings. He claimed to have seen a heavy shape pulling the bottom of the bag downward.
After asking Darius to stop, he had allegedly obtained his consent to search the bag.
Darius denied giving that consent.
Mercer's body camera began thirty seconds before the contact. It showed Darius walking alone beneath light rain, the bag over one shoulder. Mercer asked him to stop. His tone remained calm.
Then the image skipped.
Forty-seven seconds were missing.
When it resumed, Darius stood facing a wall with his hands spread. The bag rested on the hood of the car. Mercer opened it and removed a pistol wrapped in a black sweatshirt.
Donnelly paused the video.
"He writes that the grip was sticking out," I observed.
Pat enlarged the image.
The pistol was almost entirely covered.
"Maybe he moved the sweatshirt during the first search," he suggested.
"Then he should have written that."
"Yes."
He returned the video to the beginning.
Mercer announced that his camera had restarted after a malfunction.
The vehicle recording, however, captured a sentence a few seconds before it resumed.
Mercer's voice said:
"You'll thank me later."
Darius answered something unintelligible.
Then the camera came back on.
Donnelly removed his reading glasses.
"That's bad."
"Yes."
"It still isn't proof that he planted the gun."
"No. But it is enough to investigate further."
Pat stared at me.
"You are not investigating further."
I frowned.
"Why?"
"Because you're connected to the dead man, the brother, and now the accusation."
He put his glasses back on.
"We pass it to Brennan and Internal Affairs. Then you return to patrol."
"Mercer works in this building."
"And you are still in training."
I straightened.
"So we ignore the inconsistencies?"
Donnelly placed both hands on the desk.
"No. We pass them to someone who can investigate without giving Mercer an argument to have everything we find thrown out."
His voice remained calm, but firmer.
"You learned something in the Holloway case, didn't you? Knowing the direction does not give you the right to take any road you want."
I looked again at the frozen image of Darius facing the wall.
"Fine."
Donnelly nodded.
"I hate when you say that as though you're already preparing some creative way to disobey."
"I haven't prepared anything."
"That isn't reassuring."
∗ ∗ ∗
Investigator Reed arrived two hours later.
She wore the same brown coat as during the investigation into my shooting, with dark trousers and a pale blue shirt. Her hair was tied back, and her glasses rested on top of her head while she read Mercer's report.
Nolan accompanied her.
He looked even grayer than during our last meeting, as though investigating police officers had gradually drained the color from his face.
We sat in a small conference room.
Reed watched the video in silence, then reread the report.
"Forty-seven seconds."
"Yes," Donnelly answered.
"And the vehicle camera?"
"Angle too low to show the bag."
Reed slid the report toward Nolan.
"The consent is disputed."
"Yes."
She looked at me.
"You spoke to the younger Bell."
"In the presence of his attorney and Investigator Cho."
"You asked him questions about the arrest?"
"One question before being reminded of my role."
Donnelly raised one hand slightly.
"I wasn't in the room, but that sounds like him."
Reed ignored the comment.
"What question?"
"Why Mercer would have done it."
"His answer?"
"That Mercer believes he knows what is best for young people in the neighborhood."
Nolan raised his eyes from the file.
"That isn't a factual answer."
"No."
Reed closed the video file.
"You have anything else?"
"The report describes a visible grip. The video shows the weapon beneath an item of clothing."
"After the interruption."
"Yes."
She observed me for several seconds.
"You think Mercer planted the gun."
"I think the procedure contains enough inconsistencies to justify further review."
"That is not the same sentence."
"I know."
Her expression barely changed, but I thought I saw a trace of amusement.
"You always say that."
Nolan placed his glasses on the table.
"Mercer has twenty years of service. He has been the subject of three previous complaints, all closed. One for an unlawful search. Two for inappropriate language."
"And his gun arrests?"
Reed stared at me.
"You are not assigned to this investigation."
"I'm only asking."
"And I am reminding you of your role."
I disliked the answer.
It was nevertheless correct.
Reed put her glasses back on.
"We will examine comparable arrests and request an audit of the evidence. You do not discuss this with anyone."
Donnelly nodded.
"Understood."
She turned her eyes toward me.
"Beaumont?"
"Understood."
Frank stood behind her, his hands in his pockets.
"She already knows you too well."
∗ ∗ ∗
We returned to patrol.
New York seemed to have waited for my return to produce a particularly ordinary day.
We responded to an argument between two taxi drivers, a theft of food from a convenience store, and a report concerning a naked man on a roof.
The man was ultimately wearing flesh-colored shorts.
That considerably reduced the urgency of the call without diminishing the neighbors' enthusiasm.
Donnelly drove.
I completed the reports on the onboard computer.
Frank occupied the back seat.
Telepathy remained difficult inside a moving vehicle. The vibrations, radio conversations, and my own concentration produced mental noise that distorted the thoughts.
Mercer is lying.
The idea arrived as a conviction, accompanied by a blurred image of the officer's face.
You don't know that.
Frank leaned between the seats.
I know he is afraid.
Darius was afraid too.
Not the same.
The final thought came with a strange sensation, a cold tension in my chest.
Frank was not only trying to transmit a word.
He was attempting to make me feel what he had perceived.
I clenched my teeth.
Donnelly turned his head slightly.
"Your side?"
"No. A migraine."
"Already? We haven't even finished the first coffee."
Frank leaned back against the seat.
"I pushed too hard."
I looked at him in the rearview mirror.
Stop for now.
That thought passed more easily.
He nodded.
We stopped near a subway entrance to buy lunch. Donnelly chose a sandwich whose quantity of meat seemed designed to provoke a medical objection.
I took a salad and the bagel from that morning.
Pat looked at my tray.
"Your mother is going to think I'm starving you."
"She doesn't need to know about every meal I eat."
"She demands reports."
I stopped.
"You're joking."
He bit into his sandwich.
"I will not answer without my union representative."
We were eating in the car when the radio mentioned a request for assistance near the precinct. No immediate danger. An officer needed transportation for a witness.
Donnelly put down his sandwich.
"Let's go."
When we arrived, Mercer stood in front of the rear entrance of the building.
He was speaking to another officer, but his attention shifted toward our car. His face remained neutral.
Frank straightened in the back seat.
"I'm going to look."
"Stay close," I murmured.
Donnelly looked at me.
"What?"
"I said I was staying near the car."
Pat looked at the sidewalk.
"I didn't ask anything."
Frank passed through the door before I could add anything.
He followed Mercer into the building.
I remained with Donnelly near the witness, an elderly woman who had seen a bicycle accident. She spoke slowly, describing the color of the helmet three times before managing to give us her address.
Frank moved away.
I felt the link tighten.
At around three meters, his presence remained clear. At five, it became a diffuse pressure behind my forehead.
Beyond that, emotions arrived before words.
I continued taking the statement.
Then a foreign thought struck me.
Metal.
I stopped in the middle of a sentence.
The woman looked at me.
"Are you all right, officer?"
"Yes. Continue."
She resumed her account.
A second thought arrived, more painful.
Locker.
The word formed with difficulty, accompanied by an impression of a metal door and a slamming sound that did not belong to me.
Not an actual transmitted sound.
More like an approximate memory of one.
Frank pushed again.
Mercer.
I placed one hand on the roof of the car.
Donnelly immediately looked at me.
"Malcolm."
It was the first time he had used my first name on duty.
"A migraine," I repeated.
"You're pale."
The link pulled like a thread stretched from my chest into the building.
One final thought crossed the distance.
Bag. Guns.
Pain exploded behind my eyes.
I closed them for one second.
Then the link suddenly loosened.
Frank reappeared through the side wall of the precinct. His silhouette was less distinct than usual.
He walked quickly toward me.
"Mercer opened his locker," he explained aloud. "He checked a plastic bag behind a jacket. I saw at least one gun grip."
I breathed slowly.
Donnelly placed one hand on my arm.
"We're going back inside."
"I just thought of something."
His expression hardened.
"You mostly just almost fell."
"Mercer's locker."
Pat removed his hand.
"What about his locker?"
I had to choose my words.
I knew what was inside.
I could not say how.
"He may have kept unregistered equipment."
"Why do you think that?"
"An intuition."
Donnelly looked at me for a long time.
"You have very specific intuitions."
I did not answer.
He examined the building entrance, then my face.
"You do not touch the locker."
"I know."
"You do not ask anyone else to touch the locker."
"I know."
"And you do not invent a leak in the locker room."
I raised my eyes toward him.
"I wasn't going to do that."
"I know you well enough to fear creative solutions."
He took out his phone.
"We call Reed."
∗ ∗ ∗
Frank's information could not justify a search.
It could only indicate where to look for an independent justification.
The difference was frustrating.
It was also fundamental.
Reed returned with Nolan late in the afternoon. This time, she seemed less patient.
"Explain why you're interested in the locker," she asked in Brennan's office.
I remained standing near the window.
"Mercer returned to the locker room shortly after learning that his arrest was being reviewed."
"Many officers use their lockers during their shift."
"Yes."
"So?"
I searched for a formulation that was not a complete lie.
"His behavior seemed unusual."
Reed put down her pen.
"You saw him go in?"
"Yes."
"You saw him come out with anything?"
"No."
"You heard a sound, received information, or observed a specific action?"
I remained silent one second too long.
Donnelly intervened.
"He had an intuition. I thought of checking the hallway cameras."
Reed turned toward him.
"Why?"
"Because Mercer knows an investigation is beginning. If he returned to the locker room several times without a service-related reason, it could become relevant."
She did not look convinced.
But a camera represented a lawful path.
She agreed to examine the footage.
The hallway camera did not show the inside of the locker room. It recorded only entries and exits.
Mercer had entered four times since his return.
Two visits lasted less than a minute.
The third lasted eight minutes.
The fourth corresponded to the moment Frank had followed him.
Mercer had come out empty-handed, but looked in both directions before closing the door.
Nolan checked the electronic access log.
"He came back last night. Eleven forty-seven."
Brennan frowned.
"He wasn't on duty."
"He used his badge to enter through the rear door," Nolan answered.
Reed turned toward the sergeant.
"The locker belongs to the department. You may order an administrative inspection intended to verify the presence of undeclared service equipment, in accordance with internal regulations."
Brennan nodded.
"I'm ordering it."
"Not alone," Reed clarified. "We photograph the opening, the condition of the locker, and every object found. If we discover anything potentially criminal, we stop the inspection and secure the area to obtain the necessary authorization."
"Understood."
They entered the locker room thirty minutes later.
I was not allowed to accompany them.
Neither was Donnelly.
We waited in the hallway near a vending machine that vibrated at irregular intervals.
Frank could have passed through the wall.
"Stay here," I murmured.
"Why?"
"They have a lawful basis now."
"I can still look."
"I don't want to know before they do."
Frank studied the door.
"You think that makes sense?"
"No."
"Then it is probably a police rule."
Donnelly looked at me.
"Does he answer often?"
I turned my head toward him.
"Who?"
"The empty space."
"You should sleep more."
Pat narrowed his eyes.
The door opened before he could continue.
Reed came out holding a clear plastic bag by its corners.
Inside were two pistols.
Neither weapon had an evidence number attached.
Nolan carried a box of ammunition and several blank seizure forms.
Brennan appeared behind them.
His face seemed carved from stone darker than the walls.
"Where is Mercer?" Reed asked.
Donnelly looked at the clock.
"His shift ends in twenty minutes."
Reed took out her phone.
"Not anymore."
∗ ∗ ∗
Mercer was intercepted in the parking lot.
I did not see his arrest.
Brennan ordered Donnelly and me to remain inside the building.
The news nevertheless spread faster than a radio call.
Officers left their desks under the pretext of getting coffee. Others passed the windows overlooking the parking lot. When Mercer finally entered the precinct without his weapon or badge, flanked by Reed and Nolan, the entire room fell silent.
He was not wearing handcuffs.
No one needed them to understand.
Mercer raised his eyes toward me.
He looked neither surprised nor afraid.
Only disappointed.
As though I had failed a test he had never explained.
An officer near the front desk murmured something.
I did not catch the first word.
The second was rat.
Donnelly heard it.
He slowly turned toward the man.
"You have something to say more loudly?"
The officer shook his head.
"No, Pat."
"Perfect."
Mercer disappeared into an interview room.
The conversations resumed, more quietly.
I felt the looks return toward me.
This time, they contained no admiration.
Frank positioned himself near my shoulder.
"It begins."
I picked up my bag.
"I know."
Donnelly placed one hand on the back of my chair.
"Do not go home alone."
"I can get home by myself."
"I didn't say otherwise."
He put on his coat.
"I'm driving you."
∗ ∗ ∗
The rain had stopped, but the sidewalks remained glossy beneath the streetlights.
Donnelly drove without turning on the radio. The streets passed behind the windows, filled with hurried pedestrians, yellow taxis, and steam rising from manhole covers.
For several minutes, neither of us spoke.
Frank sat in the back. His silhouette had regained some of its sharpness, but the afternoon's telepathic effort had left visible fatigue in his movements.
Donnelly stopped at a red light.
"You know they're going to call you a rat."
"Yes."
"Some think Mercer saved more lives than the two of us combined."
"Maybe."
"Some of his arrests will be reviewed. Solid convictions may collapse because his name will no longer be credible."
I watched the drops slide down the window.
"I'm not the one who planted weapons."
"I know."
The light turned green.
Pat started again.
"But you'll still carry some of the anger."
"And you?"
He slightly raised one shoulder.
"I was already unpleasant before."
A brief smile appeared on my face.
Donnelly noticed.
"There. Better."
"You have a strange method of offering support."
"I married an emergency-room nurse. Normal methods no longer work in our household."
He stopped in front of my building.
Before I opened the door, he took a cardboard cup from the holder and handed it to me.
I looked at it.
"What is this?"
"Coffee."
I touched the cup.
"It's cold."
"Rats need energy."
I took it.
"Thank you."
Donnelly nodded.
His expression became serious again.
"You did the right thing."
I lowered my eyes toward the coffee.
"You're sure?"
"No," he answered honestly. "I'm sure hiding the guns would have been worse."
I got out of the car.
Frank followed me onto the sidewalk.
When Pat drove away, he watched the vehicle disappear around the corner.
"He supports you."
"Yes."
"He still thinks you're hiding something from him."
"Yes."
Frank slid his hands into his pockets.
"This is going to become complicated."
I looked at the lit windows of my building.
"It already is."
∗ ∗ ∗
The investigation into Mercer expanded over the following three days.
Darius was released into his mother's custody the next morning. The weapons charge was suspended, then dropped when Internal Affairs confirmed that the pistol matched one of the guns recovered from Mercer's locker.
The discovery of the two weapons triggered a full audit.
Reed and Nolan examined five years of Mercer's arrests.
Several files showed the same patterns.
Interrupted cameras.
Unloaded weapons.
Searches justified by vague descriptions.
No usable fingerprints.
Contradictory testimony.
Evidence found in bags, beneath seats, or inside pockets Mercer had briefly handled alone.
Most of the people arrested genuinely belonged to gangs or had previous convictions.
That made the situation more difficult, not simpler.
Mercer had not randomly chosen innocent people.
He had chosen people he believed guilty of something, then manufactured the crime he could prove.
Brennan prohibited officers not involved from discussing the investigation while on duty.
The prohibition produced the usual result.
Everyone discussed it more discreetly.
In the break room, conversations changed when I entered.
One officer stated loudly enough that some young officers learned how to write reports before learning loyalty.
Another answered that loyalty did not erase a falsification.
I did not participate.
On the fourth day, Reed asked me to join her.
The interview room was the same one where I had spoken with Darius.
The sailboat poster was still crooked.
Mercer sat alone at the table.
He wore a gray shirt and dark trousers instead of his uniform. Without his vest, badge, and duty belt, he looked smaller. The wrinkles around his eyes stood out more, and his gray mustache looked less carefully maintained.
Reed remained near the door.
"He asked to speak with you."
I looked at her.
"Why me?"
Mercer answered before she did.
"Because you started all this."
His voice was calm.
Reed pointed to the chair across from him.
"You do not have to stay. He was advised of his rights, his attorney approved this interview, and he may end it at any time. So may you."
I sat down.
Frank positioned himself against the wall to my left.
Mercer placed both hands flat on the table. His fingers were broad and marked by several old scars.
"You happy?"
"No."
"You should be. You were right."
"I wanted to know whether Darius was telling the truth."
Mercer gave a bitter smile.
"And now you have two guns, a dozen files, and enough angry officers to fill an entire union."
I looked at his hands.
"Why did you keep them?"
Reed slightly raised her head but did not interrupt.
Mercer lowered his eyes.
"Because you can't take a weapon from a documented case without leaving a trail. I acquired them elsewhere."
"From undeclared seizures?"
"From the street. From informants. From abandoned apartments."
"Then you planted them on suspects."
He raised his eyes.
"On people who were going to end up carrying one."
Anger rose in my chest.
I kept my voice low.
"That isn't the same thing."
"For mothers burying their children, the difference becomes less important."
He leaned slightly forward.
"Darius was going to be recruited. Marcus was dead. The Kings had already sent two men to speak with his mother. Social services weren't going to do anything about a vague threat. The gang unit wanted a witness. The family refused to leave."
"So you manufactured a crime for him."
"I manufactured an exit."
"A cell is not an exit."
Mercer clenched his jaw.
"It's better than a coffin."
His voice grew louder.
"You watched Marcus die. You saw what this neighborhood does to boys who think they can remain in between. Darius wasn't going to have six months to think about his future."
"He didn't have a gun."
"Not that morning."
"You cannot arrest someone for what he might do."
Mercer gave a humorless laugh.
"That is what they teach you at the academy."
"That is what the law says."
"And the law always arrives after the funeral."
He leaned back.
His shoulders sagged slightly.
"You think I liked doing it?"
I did not answer.
Mercer looked toward the interior window.
"I started with a man who had beaten his wife for years. Everyone knew. She withdrew her complaints. The neighbors never heard anything. One night, I arrested him with a knife I had found two streets away."
His mouth tightened.
"He stayed locked up long enough for her to leave."
"And after?"
"After, I did it again."
He turned his eyes toward me.
"A dealer using twelve-year-old kids. A man threatening witnesses. A nineteen-year-old shooting at cars and laughing because we didn't have usable shell casings."
"How many?"
Mercer remained silent.
"How many people did you arrest using false evidence?"
"I don't remember anymore."
Frank lowered his head.
Mercer continued more quietly:
"At first, I wrote everything down. Not the names. Only the reasons. To remind myself I wasn't doing it randomly."
"You needed a list to convince yourself you were still a good cop."
His gaze hardened.
"I needed to remember why I was doing something while people like you waited for perfect procedure."
I leaned forward in turn.
"You did not save Darius."
"He is alive."
"You taught him that the police could invent his guilt whenever they believed they had a good reason."
Mercer opened his mouth.
I continued.
"Now every arrest you made becomes suspect. Every victim who relied on your testimony will have to relive the case. Every criminal who was genuinely armed can claim you planted the weapon."
His jaw trembled slightly.
"I took them off the street."
"You also destroyed the trust needed to convict the people who really carried them."
Silence settled.
Reed remained motionless near the door.
Mercer looked away.
"You're still young. You think the system only fails because the wrong people do not try hard enough."
"No."
He raised his head.
"Then why defend it?"
I thought before answering.
"Because if every officer decides alone who deserves to be guilty, we no longer have a system. We only have armed men with good reasons."
Mercer looked at me for a long time.
His anger became exhaustion.
"And when the law is not enough?"
I thought of Marcus.
Of Darius.
Of the things Frank could discover without ever being able to place them in a report.
"We look for something else that remains true."
"That does not always save people."
"No."
My throat tightened.
"But manufacturing the truth does not save them either."
Reed opened the door.
"The conversation is over."
I stood.
Mercer did not move.
As I reached the threshold, he spoke one final time.
"When your turn comes, Beaumont, you will discover that the law does not always give you enough time."
I turned around.
"Maybe."
He raised one eyebrow slightly, surprised that I did not deny it.
"But if I start inventing facts, I hope someone stops me too."
∗ ∗ ∗
Helping Darius could not be limited to having the charge dropped.
The gang unit confirmed that the East Court Kings had attempted to recruit him. Two members of the group had contacted several of Marcus's relatives, claiming his death needed to be avenged.
Darius's mother, Denise Bell, initially refused to leave her apartment.
I met her with Donnelly, Investigator Cho, and a social worker named Miriam Ellis.
The building stood a few blocks from the Hawthorne Houses. The brown-brick facade was covered in scaffolding, and green netting flapped in the wind. Several light bulbs no longer worked in the lobby. The smell of laundry detergent, spicy food, and dampness rose from the basement.
Denise Bell received us in a small living room where every piece of furniture seemed chosen to survive several moves.
Family photographs covered the wall above the couch.
Marcus appeared at different ages.
As a child, with a missing tooth.
As a teenager, in a basketball uniform.
As a young man, wearing a white shirt.
The same photograph used after his death.
Darius sat near the window, a sports bag at his feet.
Denise had to be in her forties, but grief had added several years to her face. She wore dark blue work trousers and a beige cardigan. Her hair was wrapped in a black scarf.
When she saw me enter, her gaze remained fixed on me.
"You."
I stopped near the door.
"Ms. Bell."
"I saw you on the news."
"I know."
Her mouth tightened.
"Everyone always knows."
Donnelly stepped forward.
"Ms. Bell, we can ask another officer to stay if you prefer."
She raised one hand.
"No."
Her gaze returned to me.
"He killed my son. He can look at what is left."
Darius abruptly stood.
"Mom."
"Sit down."
Her voice cracked through the room.
He obeyed, but his shoulders remained tense.
Ellis opened a file.
"We found a temporary arrangement with your sister in Baltimore. Transportation can be organized tonight."
Denise shook her head.
"I work here."
"Your employer agreed to emergency leave."
"And after two weeks?"
Ellis hesitated for a fraction of a second.
"We will look for a transfer or a relocation program."
Denise gave a bitter laugh.
"You will look."
Darius stared at his shoes.
I understood they had probably already heard several promises spoken in the future tense.
"The gang knows this address," I said.
Denise turned her head toward me.
"I know where I live."
"Then you know they'll come back."
Her anger rose immediately.
"And what are you going to do? Plant another gun in my son's bag to protect him?"
Donnelly shifted slightly.
I remained still.
"No."
"Mercer said he wanted to help."
"I'm not Mercer."
"You are all very different when it suits you."
Darius finally raised his eyes.
"He reported Mercer."
Denise turned toward him.
"What?"
"Beaumont didn't protect Mercer."
She looked at me again.
I felt the weight of Marcus's photographs behind her.
"That doesn't bring my son back."
"No."
"It doesn't erase what you did."
"No."
Her breathing trembled.
"Then why are you here?"
"Because Darius is alive."
Silence fell.
I continued more softly:
"And because Mercer was right about one thing. The gang will try to take advantage of Marcus's death."
Darius clenched his fists.
"I don't want them."
"I believe you."
"That isn't enough."
"No."
I looked at the bag near his feet.
"Leaving for a few weeks does not mean running forever. It gives you time. Time for the gang unit to act. Time for your mother to organize what comes next. Time for you to decide without someone standing outside the door."
Denise closed her eyes.
"I cannot abandon my apartment."
Ellis leaned slightly forward.
"You are not abandoning it. We can request monitoring, preserve the lease, and arrange the mail."
The discussion lasted almost an hour.
Donnelly explained the available protections.
Cho spoke about the risks to Darius.
Ellis detailed the possible financial assistance without promising what she could not guarantee.
I spoke little.
Denise finally agreed to leave that evening.
Not because she trusted us.
Because she still had one son left to protect.
When we left the apartment, Darius followed me into the hallway.
The stairwell was lit by a bare bulb. Children's voices rose from a lower floor, and a television broadcast a game behind a door.
Darius held his bag against his chest.
"It doesn't change anything for Marcus."
I turned toward him.
"No."
He ran his tongue over his lips.
"I don't forgive you."
"I didn't ask you to."
He slowly nodded.
"But you didn't lie to protect the other cop."
"No."
Darius looked toward the stairs.
"I thought you would."
"Why?"
He raised one shoulder.
"Because you're all on the same team."
I looked at Donnelly, who waited near the lobby door.
"Being on the same team does not mean hiding mistakes."
Darius looked up.
"That should be obvious."
"Yes."
He gave a brief, humorless smile.
"It isn't."
Denise called him from the apartment.
Darius stepped back.
Before going inside, he added:
"Mercer said I'd thank him later."
"And do you?"
His face closed.
"No."
Then he disappeared behind the door.
∗ ∗ ∗
That evening, Frank and I returned to the roof.
The sky was clear for the first time in several days. Manhattan's lights formed an irregular line above the buildings. The wind was cold enough to pass through my jacket, but the air felt good after the precinct hallways.
Frank positioned himself near a water tower, about three meters away.
"We try again?"
I massaged the area between my eyebrows.
"Not as hard as the other day."
"I wasn't planning to cause a brain hemorrhage."
"Reassuring."
He closed his eyes.
I did the same.
At first, I perceived only his presence, a familiar pressure somewhere in front of me.
Then an emotion passed.
Concentration.
Fatigue.
A slight irritation because he thought my rules were too cautious.
I can feel that.
Frank opened one eye.
"What?"
Your irritation.
He smiled.
"So emotions pass more easily."
"Apparently."
We increased the distance by one step.
Frank thought of a word.
I received an impression of metal, followed by an incomplete mental sound.
Locker?
He shook his head.
"Key."
"Close."
"Not really."
We started again.
After several attempts, simple words passed correctly at three meters. At four, they became blurred. At five, I perceived little more than intention.
Frank stepped farther back.
The link tightened.
I felt pressure in my chest, less painful than at the precinct.
Come back.
The word seemed to travel more slowly.
Frank stopped.
He did not immediately return.
Instead, a clear emotion crossed the link.
Trust.
Then a fragmented thought.
Just... a little farther.
I clenched my teeth.
Not today.
This time, he obeyed.
Frank came back toward me. His silhouette wavered slightly during the final meters, then stabilized.
"We gained almost a meter," he said with satisfaction.
"At the cost of a migraine."
"Progress is rarely free."
I sat on the low ledge surrounding the ventilation system.
Frank remained standing in front of me.
"Do you think Mercer was right?"
I looked at the lit windows around us.
"About what?"
"Time. Rules. The fact that sometimes procedure arrives too late."
"Yes."
Frank raised an eyebrow.
"You admit that easily."
"Because it's true."
"But you still had him arrested."
"Because he replaced facts with what he thought was going to happen."
Frank slid his hands into his pockets.
"You know things no one else can prove."
I turned my eyes toward him.
"I know."
"One day, you could be certain someone is going to kill another person."
"Maybe."
"And if you cannot legally stop them?"
The question remained between us.
I thought of the memories from my other life.
Of the catastrophes I knew might happen.
Of criminals who perhaps did not yet exist under the same names.
Of heroes whose future decisions would cause deaths despite their good intentions.
"Then I'll look for a legal way to stop them."
Frank tilted his head.
"And if you do not find one?"
I did not answer immediately.
"I don't know."
He looked at me carefully.
"That is probably the most important answer."
I released a breath.
"You are becoming as annoying as Ted."
"I take that as a compliment."
We remained on the roof until the cold began stiffening my fingers.
Before going back down, I opened my old dinosaur notebook.
Beneath the rules added after the Holloway case, I wrote:
A good reason does not authorize you to manufacture the truth.
Frank read the sentence over my shoulder.
"Add something."
"What?"
He thought for several seconds.
"A rule protects no one if you forget why it exists."
I wrote the second sentence.
They seemed, once again, to contradict each other.
I was beginning to understand that the most useful rules often worked in pairs.
∗ ∗ ∗
Mercer was officially suspended without pay two days later.
The prosecutor's office announced it would review every case involved. Several convictions were immediately challenged. Newspapers published articles about police corruption, fabricated evidence, and the culture of silence.
My name appeared in some of the articles.
Not as that of a hero this time.
As that of the young officer who had reported the inconsistencies.
A photograph taken outside the precinct accompanied several articles. It showed me getting out of a car with Donnelly, my face closed, a file held against my chest.
Some comments congratulated me.
Others called me a traitor.
I read for less time than before.
At the precinct, reactions remained divided.
A woman from administration quietly thanked me in the elevator.
A night-shift officer stopped greeting me.
Another placed a coffee on my desk without saying a word.
Donnelly continued acting as though nothing had changed, which was probably his most sincere way of supporting me.
Three weeks after my return, he handed me the car keys without comment.
I caught them.
"You're not asking me to repeat the instructions anymore?"
He put on his coat.
"Will you follow them?"
"Probably."
"That is why I continue to worry."
We went down toward the garage.
Frank walked between us, invisible to Pat, his hands in the pockets of his bloodstained uniform.
At the exit, Donnelly stopped beside the car.
"You know what is most irritating about you?"
"The way I write reports?"
"No. That is merely criminal."
He opened the driver's door.
"You make me think after work."
"I'm sorry."
"You're not."
"No."
He shook his head and got into the car.
I sat beside him.
Frank settled behind us.
The radio announced a burglary in progress five streets away.
Donnelly activated the lights.
"Then, Professor, let's try not to get any colleagues arrested today."
I fastened my seat belt.
"I can't promise anything."
Pat released a long sigh.
Frank burst out laughing in the back seat.
For the first time since Marcus Bell's death, the sound did not feel out of place.
The city passed behind the windows, immense, noisy, and full of things I could not predict.
I was not yet certain how I would act on the day the law truly stopped being enough.
I only knew what I refused to become.
A man so convinced he was right that he could no longer see the difference between the truth and what he needed.
For now, that was enough.