Drew Thatcher punched the security code for the alarmed door with more force than strictly necessary. He sent a leveling glare up towards the ceiling as the alarm cut off with the abruptness of an interrupted record. If anyone else had been at the office, they no doubt would have commented on the way he tromped down the hallway towards his desk with a grudge.
He collapsed into his chair, jamming the power button on his computer. As the old screen flickered to life and the system booted up, Thatcher’s squinted eyes landed on the picture he kept on his desk. Just a basic family photo—he and his wife and all of the kids wrangled into one picture frame. Earlier that evening he had been trying to wrangle all of them into bed so that they could leave early tomorrow to catch their plane.
Now he had no idea whether or not they would make that flight. His rough sigh echoed throughout the empty police station. Leave it to Skinner to call him in during his first vacation in three years.
The computer warbled with a familiar pop-up, distracting Thatcher from his contemplations. He soon slipped into paperwork, adopting the droning monotony of the whirring computer. Witness reports, case requests, and officer write-ups-- it wasn’t exactly what Thatcher had trained for. Before long the light coming from the windows dampened- stretching Thatcher’s shadow across the hallway and onto the pale wall.
His eyes were just starting to ache from the glare of the screen when the phone rang. One glance at the caller ID revealed dispatch and he picked up with, “Hit me with it, Liz.”
“…Thatcher? I thought you were on vacation?”
“Yeah, yeah, I know. Skinner dropped a bomb on me a couple hours ago- said we were short-manned. Apparently Nelson quit.”
“Oh, saw that one coming.”
“You and me both… So what’s the situation?”
“Weeell, two calls just came in for domestic violence, opposite ends of town.” She sounded apologetic.
Thatcher closed his eyes and leaned back in his chair, “How urgent?”
“The first reported hearing a lot of screaming and mentioned that he knew the household held a weapon- course, so does everyone and their mom so don’t know how much that means… The other tells me there’s a fight between a boy and his father, also suspected of having a gun in residence... Sorry about this, Thatch. There’s no one else on duty?”
But he was still processing the scenarios. His vivid imagination filled in the blanks- the scream taking on the same pitch as his mother. On and on into the night. And a sudden scene in his mind: a young man from the back, shoulders tense, dark lighting, fists clenched, staring down a middle aged man- his father. The father’s hand on a bottle. Thatcher’s skin dropped temperature.
“Thatch?” Liz probed, her voice asking if he was still there.
Thatcher came to, grabbing at what she had said, “Uhh.. fraid not, you know we’ve been downsizing… Any recommendations for which I should hit first?”
“You’re just gonna have to choose this one and go with it. Don’t spend much time thinking. Here, grab a pen- the screaming came from 542 Oak Drive, over by the park... got that?
“Yeah. Got it, Oak.”
“Aaand the father-son fight is down by the new housing at 2641 Pendleton Avenue.”
“Okay. All right. Bye Liz. Thanks,” Thatcher didn’t wait for her to answer, just clicked the receiver down and stood. He was on the move before the chair stopped rolling, his hand going to the pistol holstered at his hip, his mind racing.
He snatched at facts: suspected weapons, evidence of violence. There was just nothing to it, no training to fall back on, no more information, and fairly balanced options. He had to go with his gut.
Thatcher didn’t even realize he had made it to the squad car until his hand nudged the handle. He looked down in surprise, shook his head, and jumped in. The car growled to life, a single warning loosed into calm night air. Out of the parking lot and it was left or right. Oak or Pendleton.
He turned right, on to the father and son. Hold on, little guy, he thought, though in truth he had no idea if it was the father that was to blame for the conflict. His instinct was yes, yes it was. He knew he shouldn’t draw opinions based on nothing but a mental image he’d had a few seconds ago; based on a memory that even now spurred him on. He knew it wasn’t, strictly speaking, fair. Not in the rule books. Innocent until proven guilty. But he’d be damned if his hunch was wrong.
It was a strange feeling he had then, as he drove- a sort of freezing fury, this desperate urgency, the ghost of a past pain, and a slurred timeline, lights smearing past him. Familiar landmarks turned sinister by the shadow of night. And then he hit construction signs, turned into a green-lawn neighborhood, counted numbers… 2635, 2639, 2641.
He killed the ignition. Stepped out onto newly-laid sidewalk. Raised voices and the sound of scraping furniture came from a dining room; foreboding shadows flickered on flower print curtains. Thatcher’s hand fingered the gun and he strode forward, shoulders braced, stride strong.
The sounds of a scuffle manifested as he approached: glass breaking, a voice yelling, and the sickening thud of bodies. Thatcher’s blood ran cold. The last thing on his mind was knocking.
No one locked their doors in Fairview, so when the knob held fast Thatcher counted it a bad sign.
From the other side came, “You little bastard…” A loud growl of a voice.
Thatch backed up, twisted sideways, and kicked the door once, then twice, just under the doorknob. There was a pause in the commotion beyond the door like a snake looking up from a kill.
One last good kick and the door lurched inward.
A pair of angry, drunk eyes landed on him. Another pair, streaming tears, wide with fury, young for their pain. A last set- frantic, downtrodden, maternal. They were all suspended in their actions; the man with a fist clenched around the boy’s arm, the boy shoving away, the mother leaning against the kitchen counter, eyes wide.
Thatcher stepped around the half wall and into the lamp lit room, feeling anger heat in his throat. He locked eyes with the man, and was surprised to find cold intelligence behind the red membrane of alcohol. Here was a dangerous man. Not a slovenly alcoholic who bumbled his way through life, in and out of prison for violence but a successful business man with a clear intellect.
He seemed to be weighing his options. (<- this is where I got stuck
)
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