Joe

Czeslaw wasn't sure what to expect when Skrue called him to his office. Maybe he'd noticed all the hard work he'd been doing, working extra. Maybe he was going to put him on the Marney case, or the Conchobhar case, or one of the other cases he'd dreamed of doing. Maybe it was just to bid him a good vacation.

He passed by Vadstalle on his way there, but the detective didn't even notice him. He looked pale and a bit lost. Maybe he was still getting over his partner's injury. Czeslaw thought that he had seen something a while back about Vadstalle losing his previous partner in some shootout. That must have been hard.

He knocked on Skrue's door.

"Come in," said the gruff commissioner.

Czeslaw stepped inside. "Good afternoon," he said.

The commissioner grumbled. "Take a seat, Czeslaw," he said.

Czeslaw sat down opposite the commissioner.

"I've been getting some strange reports on you," Skrue said. He looked at his screen and read something off: "Dereliction of duty, tampering with evidence, and for thorsake, closing cold cases?" He looked over at Czeslaw. "What'd going on, Joe?"

Czeslaw sat there silently. He swallowed, the lump in his throat visiting every floor before coming back down again. "Excuse me?" he said.

Skrue rolled his eyes. "Don't play dumb, Czeslaw," he said. "I have very clear documented evidence showing you shaking down a local establishment, failing to report an incident at a crime scene, taking evidence away from a crime scene, and your name is all over a bunch of cases that mysteriously got closed. How do you explain that?"

"How do you have any evidence of this?" Czeslaw asked, still in shock.

"Your PARD, Joe. It reported everything to me. I can show you all the videos if you like. Even the one of you tapping away at your keyboard, closing old cases. Why? Just because you wanted to be more than a beat cop?"

Czeslaw's palms began to sweat. "Aren't we supposed to use our best judgment?" he said.

Skrue looked at him with a scowl. "You have dedication," he said. "Don't get me wrong. But when you decided to start breaking rules, you also decided to stop protecting and serving. And tell me, Joe, what does it say across the front of this building that we're sitting in right now?"

"To protect and serve," Czeslaw said.

"And what weren't you doing?"

"Protecting and serving?"

Skrue nodded. "Look," he said. "It kills me to have to do this, but I'm going to have to put you on administrative leave. We'll do a thorough investigation into the matter, and if it turns out you were abusing your responsibilities, we'll kick you to the curb." He sighed. "If it was just one thing, Joe, I'd be willing to look the other way, but you created a big mess that our pencil-necks downstairs are going to have to wade through. That and the complaints. I mean, for thorsake, you entered the home of somebody when only their child was there. What were you thinking?"

Czeslaw hung his head in shame. "I guess I wasn't," he said.

"Hand over your badge, your gun, and anything else you might be able to use to get into trouble. Then get the Hel out of here. We'll call you in a week. Is that understood?"

"Yes, sir," he said. He took his police issue gear off and laid it on Skrue's desk. 

"Keep the uniform until we get this all sorted out, but don't you dare wear it outside this building or put it on until and unless we say you're good to resume your role with us. Do you understand?"

"Yes sir," Czeslaw said.

"Don't forget the PARD," said Skrue. He was tapping his ear. 

Czeslaw slid the device out of his ear and dropped it on the desk.

"Though I'm sure you feel differently, the PARD pilot program has definitely helped us police better."

"Yeah," said Czeslaw.

"You're dismissed."

He went to the locker room and changed into his civilian clothes. He folded his shirt and pants and tucked them into his bag, sticking his hat on top. Joe left the precinct and stepped out onto the street.

He didn't know where else to go, so he went to March's diner. He sat at the counter.

"The usual?" she asked.

Joe nodded.

"Did you start your vacation a day early?" March asked as she poured him a cup of coffee.

He shrugged. "Sorta," he said.

She set down a plate and tonged a doughnut onto it. "That doesn't sound like a good 'sorta,'" she said.

He shook his head. "I messed up big, March," he said.

She patted him on the shoulder. "It's okay, Joe," she said. "If you want to talk about it, you can, but if you want to just sit there silently while you eat and drink, be my guest. I'm not here to judge."

Joe sighed. "Yeah," he said. He sipped the coffee and took a bite of the doughnut. It was filled with key lime and merengue, and tasted almost as good as the real thing.

"I think I lost my job today," he said, his mouth full.

"Oh?" said March. "What happened?"

"Turns out my PARD was reporting on me every time I did something wrong."

"You were carrying around a narc?" March asked. "What a shame, Joe." She laid her hand on his shoulder and gave it a squeeze. "You know what, though?"

"What?" Joe asked.

"My old man, he was a cop, at least until he was caught doing something he shouldn't have been doing. You know? Normal cop stuff? It's just he was the one holding the hot potato when the music stopped."

Joe nodded.

"You know what he did?"

"What?"

"The very next day he started getting his private investigator license. Sure, things were a little rocky at home at first, and we lived paycheck to paycheck, but, I tell ya, my old man was one of the best PIs money could buy."

Joe nodded. "You think I have what it takes to be a PI?" he said.

March shrugged. "I could use a new cook at the diner," she said. "Maybe something more. But follow your heart, dear. You'll be great."

Joe grinned. He left her a nice tip before leaving. He headed home after that and started the ball rolling on getting his private investigator's license, and setting up a business entity to work under. He also took a few minutes standing in front of a mirror, practicing saying, "Joe Czeslaw, Private Eye."

It was late, and he felt a little better about the direction of his life. Sure, just like March said, things would be rocky at first, and maybe he would have to take her up on that chef position until the checks started to clear. And maybe the "something more," either way. She was just his type.

He started unpacking his bag, taking out his police uniform. Something metal rattled to the floor. He picked it up and looked at it. It was the five-namero coin that that Vadstalle had given him. 

This made all the feelings he thought he had just gotten over come back with a vengeance. He clutched the coin in his hands, a totem to his shame. It didn't matter if he became the best PI ever, he'd always know that he was second fiddle to that arrogant detective.

The corners of the coin dug into his palm. He didn't realize he'd been squeezing so hard. He twirled the coin in his hand and thought about things. On his wall was a board, similar to the one that kid's mom had in their apartment. Next to the picture the kid had given him was his own little yarn-chart. It had headlines and articles and photographs and pushpins and yarn, all describing a pretty large web. He was going to tell Skrue about it, and maybe rub it in Vadstalle's face (or maybe wait, what with whatever he was going through with his partner's injury), and then crack the biggest case this city's ever seen wide open.

He looked at it for several minutes more. Then, he tore it down and rolled it into a crumbled mess. Something fell to the floor. He looked down. It was that little drone he had found when all this had started. He left it there, promising himself he'd pick it up when he got home. 

He marched outside, coin in one hand, bundle in the other. He walked and walked and walked until he didn't know where he was. It was only when he saw the edge of the canal that he began to recognize familiar landmarks.

The canal was where everybody went to get rid of their ghosts, or make new ones. Joe marched past a bank of motorcycles, and saw one that looked almost exactly like Vadstalle's. He sneered, wondering how many antique motorcycle hipsters there were in this Odin-forsaken town.

It was getting on to midnight, so there weren't very many people at the canal. The bars and restaurants and clubs across the way were hopping, but the actual pedestrian activity along the canal was what you'd expect for midnight: barely anything.

He stepped right up to the edge. With one hand, he tossed the bundle into the canal, adding it to the pile of detritus that society felt fine tossing there. He looked down over the grime that had worked itself out of the gears and ended up here, ready to be washed out to sea or picked up by Untertagen or cleaned up the next time an environmental holiday bore down on the conscience of the people enough for them to do something about it.

The papers and yarn scattered to the wind. A bit of yarn wrapped around a bar sticking out of the muck. In the distance, he heard a gunshot, or maybe it was a firecracker. He didn't care anymore, and he didn't have to care anymore. He just hoped that if somebody did get shot, he wouldn't be in the sights next.

He didn't hear anything else, aside from just some music from across the parking lot. He took the five-namero coin and tossed it as far as he could down the canal. A few seconds later, he heard a hollow thunk. Bullseye.

Free of his burdens, he made his way to the nearest bus stop. It was a pity he hadn't brought his uniform, but he didn't want to have to pay a fine, no matter how cathartic it would have been to dump it with the other junk.

As he waited for the bus, a business man in black gloves hurried past, disappearing into the neon night. A few minutes later, another figure, melodramatic in a brown trench coat and fedora rushed past. He thought he saw the person's face and thought it looked familiar, but it could have just been the shadows playing tricks on his mind.

When the other dregs of society had gathered around him, a bus rolled up. It took them back to their homes, or closest approximations of such. Joe considered striking up a conversation with the woman next to him, telling her he was a private investigator, but when he realized she was a gearhead, he decided not to. The guy to the other side of him held a cardboard sign. It said IT'S NO MYTH. IT'S MITHRAS.

Mithraists! 

He sat there quietly until the bus got close enough to his building to walk, but not so close such that the other people on the bus would have a good idea where he lived.

Back home, he picked up the drone from the floor before collapsing into bed. What a day, and what a way to start a vacation.

As he drifted off to sleep, he said, "Joe Czeslaw, Private Eye," to the ceiling.