Four policemen in riot gear were rushing out the door when Wyatt arrived at the department, and they nearly bowled him over. "Move it Milter," one of them said. It was Kent, who gave him a slight shove and a sneer, before adjusting the vest over his girth.

"Sorry Steven," Wyatt said, leaning against the railing beside the door. Kent didn't respond. He watched them head towards a small van that was pulling up outside the front of the department, one of the many new ones that had been outfitted in the initiative since Hyde Park. The driver himself had slightly lighter gear on, and was talking into the radio. He didn't seem terribly hurried. It must have been one of the usual university protests, with a few dozen guys there already. That was standard operating procedure these days -- send a half-dozen patrol cars, if they look like they're ready to break up but they're taking their time about it, send a van with guys in riot gear just to hurry things along. If there was even a hint of trouble they'd be sending out more than just these four.

Captain Nichols was talking with Dr. McMurry at the front of the office. When he got inside, the Captain's face lit up. "Milter, good to see you... coffee, two creams, two sugars, and meet me in the office. Don't bother taking off your jacket."

"Yes sir," Wyatt said. His heart sank when he saw the doctor, standing there in her business attire and her hair done up. Psych evaluations were up today, and he'd totally forgotten. He dreaded the psych evaluations -- ever since he'd confessed to McMurry about dreaming of Hyde Park, it was the only thing she ever brought up anymore. The evals were done every month now (up from once every three months a year ago), and a month was long enough to have had three or four of those dreams, which meant that he could have developed schizophrenia and they wouldn't have time to talk about it. He tried lying about the dreams once, but he was a terrible liar, and the subject was unavoidable. In training, they'd had a few demonstrations of the lie detector, and he'd been brought up as the guinea pig. Kent, who was in the same class as him and knew a few embarrassing things, asked Wyatt some pretty shameful questions, and Wyatt lied badly through all of them. No, I'm not still a virgin. No, I don't live with my sister. Yes, I passed my physical on the first go-round. The needle was off the charts, like a seismograph during an earthquake.

He headed over to the coffee machine beside the secretary, and began pouring Nichols's coffee exactly how he liked it. He'd done it so many times he was surprised Nichols constantly reminded him about the two creams and sugars. As he broke open the first cream, he already knew how the day would pan out. Bring Nichols his coffee, wait in the office for the files that needed to be brought to DA, wait at the DA's office in order for different files to be brought back to the department, wait around at his desk if there were any phone calls, get called into the back room for the psych eval with McMurry, wait around for any more phone calls, go home, watch the late night talk shows and eat an omelette.

Maybe dream about being an actual cop.

"Milter, move it," Nichols said before slamming a door behind him, and Wyatt hurried up, but not before busting the second cream so that it spilled all over the counter.

"Shit," he said, looking over at the secretary apologetically.

She looked up, looked at the mess, and rolled her eyes before going back to her Sudoku.

"I'll clean that up when I get back," he said.

If she heard him, she didn't acknowledge it.

Wyatt cradled the mug with both hands as he made his way carefully across the office. Kent wasn't there at his usual spot, which meant that he could take a direct route without fear of being tripped. As he walked by, the others were on their phones, talking in that robotic tone of voice that enough years at the desk can give you.

"-trying to tell you ma'am, we don't have ladders. The fire department can better help you with that. I can put you through. Just a-"

"-a squad car in the neighbourhood, we'll have them drive by. If the music's too loud, they'll-"

"-can come in and file a report, that's the best thing. We don't recommend buying a gun-"

"-more than twenty people, then it's standard operating procedure to have somebody come in and check it out. It's just a precaution, and if the demonstration is peaceful, there shouldn't be-"

He grinned, a little sardonically. There were about 20 conversations they would have over and over again, and it got so that even though they were provided with scripts for each of them, he never needed to reference them.

He held the mug carefully as he slowly opened Nichols' door. Milter, took you long enough, Wyatt thought. Take that to the DA pronto. Bring it back to the front.

"Milter, took you long enough," Nichols said, not even looking up from his computer as he held out his hand to receive the cup. He nodded his head towards the front of the desk. "There. Take that to the DA pronto."

"Yes captain," Wyatt said, handing over the coffee and looking down at the file. It was partially opened, and there were photographs inside that were spilling out. Wyatt took a brief glance at the top-most one, and almost dropped the coffee.

It was a bloodied arrow shaft lying on the pavement.

"Milter, careful, Jesus." Nichols reached out with his other hand to steady the cup.

"Sorry captain," Wyatt said. His mind was racing. The attack... it happened at PCFM radio station, which was on... somewhere on Moore Boulevard, but since Moore cut through five different precincts in the city, it hadn't occurred to him the night before to even consider that it would be in theirs. Moore and... Well, it didn't matter. Somebody from their precinct had answered the call, taken photos, gotten interviews... His scrapbook was filled with newspaper clippings, random gossip around the office, and some speculating on his part, but this was his first chance to see a file on it. Immediately his mind flashed to the photocopier out back, near the rear exit to the squad cars. Nobody's ever there.

"These need to go right away?" Wyatt asked quickly.

"What did I say, Milter?" Nichols asked.

"Yes, Captain," Wyatt said. "Should I take one of the squad cars around back?" It had been years since he'd actually been behind the wheel of one, but the anxiety of driving again was totally overshadowed by the need to get near a photocopier.

"The DA's office is four blocks away, Milter. We've got a demonstration up near PCU. We need those squad cars freed up."

"Right..." Wyatt sighed, turning towards the door, file in hand.

"Uh, are you forgetting something?" the Captain asked.

"Sir?" Wyatt said, turning around.

The Captain pointed at an almost-empty cup from earlier. "Bring it back to the front."

"Right, sorry sir," Wyatt said. He tucked the file under his arm and grabbed the cup. The file almost slipped out of his hand, and he brought the other around to secure it, splashing a tiny bit of old coffee on the manilla folder. He held them both precariously for a second, before going over to the wall to steady them. It's a wonder we trust you with a phone.

"Christ, Milter," the Captain said. "It's a wonder we trust you with a-"

"Sorry sir," Wyatt said, tucking the file tightly under his armpit to open the door. "I'll get this out straight away."

"You want me to what?" the teenage clerk asked, his loose lips and tiny eyes expressing exasperation.

"Listen," Wyatt said, pointing at his badge as he got up on his tiptoes, "Our office copier is down and the district attorney needs this right now."

"Alright..." the clerk said.

"But whatever you do, don't fold the corners on the stapled sheets or anything like that."

"Alright..." the clerk said, one of his eyebrows tilting up.

"And you can't look at anything inside. This is confidential."

"But if we can't look at anything, how can we know what to photocopy?"

"Just... do your best. Keep the photos faced away from you, and if you see text, uh... don't read it. Just put the lid down fast."

"Alright..." the clerk said, turning to go.

"And I need this done in the next five minutes. They're expecting me."

"Alright, rush jobs are extr-" the clerk began, and Wyatt cleared his throat, pointing at his badge. The clerk pursed his lips. "But you said the district attorney, right? That's like, City Hall? They have an account with us. It won't cost you anything."

Wyatt coughed quickly. "No, no, I don't want you to charge them for this."

"You're going to pay?"

Wyatt noticed that the kid's mouth hadn't closed since he got there. "Yeah, I'm going to take care of it."

"Alright... well, rush jobs are extra," the clerk said.

"Can't you make an exception for the city's finest?"

"Don't you guys have, like, the biggest budget in the city?" the boy said, pointing his nose at Wyatt's badge.

"Well... Look, if we had such a big budget, don't you think I'd be driving there instead of walking it?"

The clerk looked at him for a second, and then shook his head. "Whatever... I'll be back in a second."

Wyatt smiled, and folded his hands behind his back, and started to whistle. He watched as the clerk spoke to the teenaged girl who was working the machine. She looked over in his direction as the boy relayed the instructions, and Wyatt was able to lipread her saying "He's a cop?" with an expression of disbelief to the clerk. The clerk shrugged his shoulders.

"Uh, excuse me?" Wyatt called out. "The city waits..."

"Yes sir," they both said, as if he were their teacher.