THE COLD LOCKER

The zip-tied were tight, biting into my polymer frame, pinning me against the cardboard with a clinical, unyielding grip. I arrived at the lab at 0217 hours according to the Lead forensic technician, Sarah.

The lab was a hive of activity, groups of people walking, grabbing things left and right. Sarah pulled on a pair of gloves and adjusted her mask then placed me under a magnifying glass.

“It’s a textured grip,” she said. “Been through hell, though, traditional dusting won’t catch much. I’m running it through fuming first.”

She shoved me into a glass chamber. The air thickened with an acrid taste. Vaporized cryanoacrylate bloomed inside, clinging to me, searching for what couldn't be seen. I felt the residue settle into every curve and seam. When the fog cleared, I was new. 

White ridge patterns emerged along my slide and the curve of the trigger guard.

“Now, we’re in business,” Sarah said, her voice muffled by the mask. 

She photographed each print under a blue light, rotating me carefully. Every image was time-stamped. Every angle logged.

She turned to a man holding a clipboard.

 “Primary set matches the juvienile but there's a secondary partial present. Inconclusive. Run it through AFIS.”

Next came the ballistics tank.

A single round was removed from evidence packaging, measured and logged before being seated onto my magazine. Sarah stood at the edge of the tank, aimed downward and pulled the trigger.

The water muffled the "crack" and the spent brass casing ejected with a dull “clink”. The bullet was fished out then scanned. A match unfolded line by line on the monitor.

Then my serial number.

“Confirmed,” someone said quietly. “Officer Miller Barnes’ missing service weapon.”

I was placed on a cart and rolled down a long, refrigerated corridor lined with steel shelving. The Evidence Vault. As I was placed in the noise of the precinct bled through.

Words like "negligent storage" and "child endangerment" collided in the air. There were sobbings of a woman. 

“Where is he?” the woman cried. “Where’s my Leo?”

In a room nearby, Leo sat on a hard plastic chair, feet dangling, staring at the floor. When the door opened, he looked up.

“Mommy.”

The locker shut, pulling me into darkness.

But silence in a police precinct is never absolute.

Through the thin metal vents of the locker, voices drifted in fragments. The woman's cries were fading, replaced by the rhythmic cadence of professional footsteps.

"Captain's on the warpath," a voice muttered just outside the vault door.

"Can you blame him?" another replied. "First Barnes gets executed, and now his service weapon turns up in a playground shooting? The press is going to eat us alive."

Then came a sound I recognized.

A high-pitched voice.

“I need to see the intake log,” the voice demanded. “Captain wants me to verify the serial number against the shipyard manifest personally.”

"Evidence is sealed, Detective Vance," the vault officer said, his tone bored and bureaucratic. “You know protocol. I can't let you in without a secondary sign-off…”

“This is my case!” Vance snapped. "Miller was my friend. I’m not letting some lab tech miss a detail because they’re playing with machines.”

I felt the tension in the air. Vance was mere feet away, separated by the steel, but I could feel the anger and panic in his voice.  Fortunately for me, the vault officer wouldn’t budge and Vance left puffing.

Time passed. I didn’t hear much. No updates. Only chatter about Peter's crush, overtime and something about an undercover op. Useless gossip.

Then one day, I heard the crinkle of a wax-lined bag and the clink of two coffee cups.

“Long night, Pete?”

Vance’s voice again, smooth now, calmer.

"Tell me about it," the vault officer sighed. I heard the scrape of a chair. "This Barnes case has everyone in a chokehold."

"Well, I figured you could use a boost. Got those maple-glazed ones you like from the place on 4th. And hey," Vance lowered his voice, dropping a hook he knew would bite. "I just saw Sarah in the breakroom. Heard she was asking about you.”

There was a pause in the air. Pete, the man whose “crush” on the lead technician was a poorly kept secret, let out a breathy laugh.

"Really? She..she did?"

"Yep," Vance smirked. "It’s only a matter of time before she recalibrates her techy things and clocks out. Go on, player. I’ll keep an eye on the desk for ya. It’s 0300; the Captain is out cold in his office. You’ve got time.”

This time, Peter budged.

I heard the biometric lock chirp—a thumbprint scan—followed by the heavy thud of the vault’s main door swinging open. Footsteps hurried away, leaving a silence that felt heavier than the dark.

Then, the locker door groaned.

Vance stood there, his face pale, eyes darting toward the security camera that whirred out of sight. He reached into his jacket and pulled out a twin.

It was another 9mm, identical in make and model to my polymer frame. On its side, the numbers 400492 had been freshly etched, the metal still bright and jagged where the laser had cut. But that couldn’t be right. That was my serial number. My label.

“I can’t seem to get rid of you, huh?” Vance hissed, his voice a whisper.

He lifted me out, replacing me with the imposter.

“This time I’m not taking any chances.”

He shoved me into his waistband, closed the locker and stepped out.

I felt his heart hammering against me—not the steady rhythm of a hero, or the frantic pulse of a child, but the erratic, jagged beat of a man who was already dead inside. 

I was no longer evidence. I was a Liability. And a liability had to be liquidated.

The car sped on the bridge while Vance checked his rearview mirror every five seconds. For a second, I thought he might stop there and throw me into the salty water below. As we reached the far side of the bridge, the road narrowed into smooth asphalt, giving way to the cracked, oil-stained streets. He stopped at an auto-body shop that looked stitched together with paper glue.

Vance’s hands were shaking as we walked in. The scent of grease and smoke rushed me. In front was a man with a smooth beard sitting on top of an old engine block. The men surrounding him approached, putting their hands on him.

“Yo, yo yo let him through,” the man said. “What’s happening, Vance?”

The man’s voice dropped an octave into a gravelly rasp. It wasn’t a question but a demand. "You told me it was gone." He looked at me, pointing with a long, dirty fingernail. "So why am I still looking at it?"

“A freak accident, Silas,” Vance hissed, leaning in. A drop of sweat fell from his nose “Some goddamn kid found it. Internal affairs is already breathing down the precinct’s neck, asking all sorta questions, man. It’s a fuck show!”

I sat between them like a motionless bridge connecting the two humans who were deciding my fate. Silas, as I would find out was the leader of the G45 crew. I’m not sure what to make of this crew other than the fact that they loved my kind and I mean, really love them.

“The investigation is a problem,” Silas said, finally reaching out. 

His hands were heavy and strong.  A firm grip, utterly devoid of emotion. The complete opposite of any owner I had. Something about it felt “right.”

“What about them shipments we were expecting?” Silas asked.

Vance rubbed his neck. “I dunno man. It’s too hot out there. I’m the lead investigator on this, so I can bury a few files and keep some knowing witnesses shut but I can’t explain why more guns are suddenly missing from the evidence locker.”

“You’re already dirty, Vance,” Silas chuckled, waving me around. “No reason being clean now. But tell ya what. I’ll have my boys run with what they got for now…but remember, there’s a turf war going on. I can’t get what’s mine without the proper tools. Ya feel me?”

Vance gulped and nodded. “Y..eah.”

“Great," Silas smiled sliding me into the back of his jeans, just before his butt cruck. 

"And...I'll keep the gun. I think it has some character."