“Because. It’s the most ridiculous thing you’ve ever said to me, that’s why.” Detective Prescott slid into the unmarked black Cadillac Escalade. The SUV still had that new car smell. “Sometimes I cannot believe you ever made it through the academy.”

“Why is that, Prescott? Because I could kick your butt on the range?” The younger detective winked at the senior officer. “Don’t get all butthurt because I’m a better shot than you.”

“Not better, kid. Just a little faster. And less accurate in real-time. At least we haven’t had to find that out. Not yet, anyway.”

“I’m still a better shot,” Detective Murray laughed, starting the Escalade. Pacific Northwest drizzle coated the windshield enough to turn on the wipers. Springtime in Portland meant rain and cloudy, overcast days. Prescott wasn’t close enough to retirement but still took his time, letting his rookie partner take the brunt of the difficult situations. Clive Prescott was tired. Tired of the weather. Tired of the job and the jokers they encountered every single day. Drug dealers, pimps, hookers, and wannabe gangbangers, those guys that pretended they were part of a bigger deal, beating people up when they had to. Otherwise, if they had their choice, they’d watch football or basketball and get stoned. Real gangs didn’t get anywhere close to cops, much less homicide detectives. Multnomah County needed more detectives, and until they had more graduates from the academy or more applications from outside jurisdictions, Murray and Prescott would fill in from time to time.

“Ridiculous statement, kiddo.” The older officer pulled out his .38 Special, a gift from his first mentor, turning it over a few times in his hand. His mentor was now deceased thanks to a bullet fired from another uniformed Portland police officer. The ricochet came from a 9mm, although the firefight, a term coined after Vietnam, lasted only a few seconds with multiple 9mm weapons being fired, no one claimed the round. Ballistics weren’t clear, nor would they be. Cops protected their own, even if one of their own was killed by another officer’s weapon. They say accidents happen, and police officers in the Portland Metro area were well informed of the danger. Most of the men were danger-seekers and adrenaline junkies, looking for some ‘action’ as they say. Prescott fired it once the day he got it on the range and kept it holstered, except once. The exception was pulling it out on a woman suffering from methamphetamine psychosis. She thought Prescott was some unearthly being wanting to eat her heart. None of it was true, but he also knew it would be impossible to rationalize with her. Psychology was his go-to tool, especially for homeless veterans, alcoholics, and individuals abusing various substances. This woman, in her early thirties, couldn’t be reasoned with, wasn’t listening to anyone, not even her spaced-out boyfriend, probably whacked out on heroin, seeing as how his pupils were non-responsive. The boyfriend tried his best to talk to her. It didn’t help at all.

“Hey, baby,” his speech was super slurred, every syllable elongated and dragged over his thick tongue. “You need to chill out, or these cops are gonna whack you dead, you dig?” He looked like he belonged on tour with the Grateful Dead, his dark-blonde dreads getting in his eyes, making it even more difficult to assess his condition.

“YOU WILL NEVER TAKE MY HEART! STAY AWAY FROM ME!” Before Prescott could speak, she charged him, running as fast as her scrawny legs would carry her. He pulled out the .38 and aimed it at her leg, ready to fire.

“STOP RIGHT THERE OR I WILL FIRE!” He shouted the same thing three times, pulling the trigger after she was close enough to smell alcohol or some other substance emanating from her skin. The two shots penetrated her leg, dropping her to the ground. The screams. That was what kept Prescott up at night. It took years before he could drift off without at least a shot of whiskey. He remembered watching blood spurt from her leg, maybe fragments of bone. He did his best not to think about it, so he stared at .38 Special, remembering to keep it tucked away. His hand started shaking, so he holstered the weapon. A thin bead of sweat appeared on his upper lip. Prescott brushed it away, scrubbing his palms into his eyes, hoping that would stop the tears from coming. It did.

“Hey, boss. We’re here.”

The black SUV stopped in front of a regular southeast Portland home. Six steps led up to the front door, windows jutting out from the building, a typical thing seen in the older homes of Portland. This wasn’t any house. This was a safe house. Safe from prying eyes. Safe from anyone attempting to hide from evil men, like those in witness protection who were ratting out their fellow criminal. They say crime doesn’t pay. Like it or not, if you are going to double cross your business partners, it’s best to disappear. Otherwise, rumor has it they’ll make you disappear. Which one is worse? Prescott thought it would be far better to die than to give away a partner. No matter what they might have done.

Murray disagreed. “Think he’s still safe in there?”

“I dunno, kid. I hate babysitting. One more reason I never had kids,” he winked at Murray. Besides, we got better things to do with our time than watch a rat.” Prescott never told anyone about his ties to one of the Portland Italian crime families.

Both cops exited the SUV, scanning the block before walking to the front door. “I hate this neighborhood, boss. We could’ve left this guy in the tank. He’d have been okay, don’t you think?”

“Murrary, you really think some country hick is going to survive in Portland without help? Do you think he’d survive in a holding cell? Or better yet,” Prescott knocked on the door, “maybe we should’ve let him off in the Park Blocks, yeah? No, kiddo. This guy wouldn’t last ten minutes outside of our facility. It’s bad enough that he’s got to be in the city. Truth be told, I’d rather have him in Gresham or Tualatin. Even Tigard would be too much for the old guy. Probably drop dead from a heart attack or stroke.”

The detectives walked through the open door, waiting to commence with the pleasantries. With the door shut and locked, then the handshakes and greetings started. “Murray?” Murray nodded. “Prescott?” Prescott nodded. “Detective Barry Lawson.”