17. Of Those Dealing With Malice

Of Those Dealing With Malice

That the barefoot guitarist on the sidewalk could stand standing amazed Holden, because the heat from the asphalt beneath his feet was uncomfortable even in shoes. Opening the entrance door to the SMPD, he glanced back and, again, shook his head half in amusement, half in awe. The vagrant's (singing) face didn't look tense at all.

'Excuse me,' Holden said, 'can you tell me where the office of Captain Richards is?'

The bored receptionist continued chewing her gum, and looked at him with an "are you serious"-look on her face. She twisted her wrist so that her thumb pointed towards a sign on the wall. Large sign, in plain sight.

Holden could feel his face going red. He thanked her anyway, and headed to the elevator. He pressed four, and the lift started ascending. He'd been told by Chief Jeter to report to Richards, so after checking in and freshening up at The Westin, here he was. Holden had never been to the SMPD before. He'd actually never even been to Sydney at all. Strange, when he thought about it.

He was twenty-five now, but people told him he looked younger. He'd tried to grow a little facial hair on his boyish face, to compensate for that and for his slim frame and five feet, five inches. It hadn't helped, in his opinion. He was anxious, even a little nauseous, and he felt his heart beating faster. He tried to calm himself, tried to look confident before meeting the the old-timers of the SMPD. They wouldn't like upstarts lecturing them in their own field. And especially not if the upstart looked like a scared kid.

He didn't look very smart in shorts, in his opinion, but he wouldn't have looked very smart with big sweat stains either. The shirt was okay; a new, stylish, and expensive Polo. Holden felt annoyed nonetheless, he was very preoccupied with looking his best these days. An ambitious fellow, he aimed for the top - he wanted Jeter's job one day.

And thinking of Jeter, Holden reminded himself that the chief had said the captain; Richards, was okay. Strange, unpredictable at times, but fair. It made Holden feel a little less anxious.

Stepping out of the elevator, he took in the Homicide Department. Straight ahead was the entrance, double glass doors with glass walls on both sides. The theme of transparency was as apparent inside the walls as it was from the outside; there were big, open spaces between the desks. No cubicles. The desks were full sheets of paper, plastered on them were many of those small, quadratic, yellow notes. Well, some were purple. Cluttering even more were ring binders to hold even more paper, and pen holders. On some of the desks, Holden could see laptops underneath all the stuff. This seemed like a department of old-timers, alright.

The most peculiar thing about the department was the fact that it was empty. Early in the workday, and no one was here? It was only to be expected that many were out on assignments, but that they all were surprised him. He looked up, and saw that the lights were all off. Maybe not so strange with glass walls on a bright day like this. They all got light that way, since every detective had their "office" in one big room. Every detective but one.

On the opposite end of the entrance was the door to an actual office. Walls under the windows, windows on which shades could be pulled over. The sign on the door read "Captain Harry Richards". The shades were not drawn at the moment, and Holden saw something that indicated that he would be along shortly: The spots in the roof of the captain's office were on.

Holden, nosy, moved closer. The light in the office was dull, so there was some refraction from the brightness of the day, but he could see the details in the office without moving too close. He didn't have to stand right next to the glass and shield his eyes. It didn't have to look like he was spying.

This nosiness was the reason he had become a detective. Mysteries and secrets were irresistible to him. Solving puzzling crimes was right down his alley. Always had been.