Chapter nine
Michael
Thetextmessagearrivedat 5:47 AM, clinical in its brevity:
Admin:Report to Internal Affairs, 10:00 AM.
I stared at the screen until my eyes burned, and then I tossed the phone onto my rumpled sheets. The digital summons wasn't a surprise. I'd been waiting for it since I stepped off the plane from Tahiti.
My apartment provided little comfort. Stacks of mail covered the small table by the door—bills, flyers, and a humorous postcard from Miles sent before everything went to hell. The air was stale with the aromas of yesterday's coffee and nuked dinner.
A half-empty mug sat crusted with a black ring on the counter. I hadn't bothered opening the blinds since I got back.
I dragged myself into the shower and stood under scalding water until my skin turned fiery red. The pain was better than nothing. Better than the slow, choking knowledge that no matter what story they told, I'd already lost.
I knew I'd likely have to surrender my gun and badge. I wore jeans and a faded navy hoodie that Marcus left at my place months ago.
The precinct hallways were longer than I remembered. Every footstep echoed against the institutional tile. A rookie officer—Perez—spotted me and pivoted abruptly, ducking down a side corridor. My stomach twisted into a knot. Three days and I was already a cautionary tale.
The Internal Affairs office was a monument to institutional authority: windowless walls painted a precise shade of nothing and fluorescent lights that hummed at a frequency designed to unsettle. The chairs—rigid plastic with metal legs—were arranged at right angles to the desk, calculated for maximum psychological disadvantage.
Two agents waited for me—Mueller, whom I'd known for years, and a woman I didn't recognize.
Mueller didn't bother to stand. "Officer McCabe, take a seat."
I did. The chair wobbled slightly beneath me.
"This meeting is to formally notify you that effective immediately, we are placing you on administrative leave pending investigation into the Tahiti incident." There was no emotion in his voice. He might as well have been typing.
The woman—Agent Morrow, according to her nameplate—slid a document across the desk. "We require you to surrender all department-issued items. Firearm, badge, access cards."
My fingers curled into my palms. "Already left them with Rodriguez at the front desk."
Mueller nodded without looking up from his notepad. "You are to have no contact with any witnesses related to the Reeves case. You are prohibited from discussing the ongoing investigation with media outlets or on social platforms."
I left the building the same way I'd entered, except now I was lighter by one badge, one gun, and whatever remained of my professional dignity. With merciless clarity, the lobby's polished surfaces reflected my descent from officer to suspect.
I squinted against the morning sun. It was too bright to be Seattle.
The air held the briny tang of Puget Sound mixed with exhaust from the nearby highway. I needed somewhere to go that wasn't home, somewhere to set aside the humiliation crawling under my skin.
Before returning to the parking lot, I lingered near the staff entrance, watching officers come and go. They were people I'd trained with, backed up, and trusted. My fingers drummed restlessly against my thigh.
Two uniforms exited the building, laughing about something. Johnston and Meyer. They'd been rookies when I was already on SWAT. Their conversation died when they spotted me. Johnston whispered something. Meyer's eyes widened.
"That's him, right?" Johnston spoke in a stage whisper, intentionally loud enough for me to hear.
Meyer answered back. "Fucking mess. Heard the guy didn't even fight back."
They walked past me, pretending I was invisible. More officers trickled out for lunch. Hushed conversations resumed once they thought I was out of earshot.
"Bad optics."
"Island cowboy."
"Can't have him back in SWAT after this."
Each word sliced deeper than the last. These people had been family once. Now, I was contaminated and could poison their career by proximity.
