“What the crap is this?” Ken was holding a small white case. Ken was a grey-eyed, medium-sized man, with a round forehead that seemed to have pushed past his hairline. Brown hair had been buzzed but had grown out just this side of shaggy. Round shoulders were emphasized by the sport coat he wore. He had a thick mustache but was otherwise cleanshaven.

There was a similar case on each desk in the bullpen. Ken’s quick hands were opening the case as he sat down, his partner already pecking away at the computer in front of him.

“You’d know if you read your emails,” Johnston didn’t bother to look up.

“They always cover what matters in roll call.” Inside the case was an oddly shaped pistol. It almost looked like an old German WWII pistol – a long skinny barrel balanced by a heavy handle and boxy mechanisms in the back. The handle was angled, and the whole thing was apparently lacquered white. Ken didn’t know a gunmaker who did that – usually, you got black or grey, maybe a camo pattern or something.

“Don’t forget to turn in your Sig,” Johnston smirked at his computer screen. Johnston’s white teeth never seemed to match his yellowed eyes.

"What?” Ken hefted the gun. It was a 9mm, but the mechanism was funky.

“Read your email. They told us about this months ago. New service weapons, made from that plasteel stuff. Department got them cheap, some new company wants a trial run.”

“So I’ve got to learn a new weapon just because the city got a deal?” The angled grip in particular would be a bitch. Shooting it would mean adjusting stance and aim.

“Yup. Look on the bright side, if you break anything in it other than the spring in the magazine, the warranty will pay you over a million. I think there’s already a crowd downstairs playing with it.”

“Shit.”

"Read your emails, McParland.” Ken turned back to his computer. “Oh, and just wait till you try and sign out a vest.”

The Sergeant ran roll call like normal. Ken sat in the back. “Reminder, you’ve got until the end of the week to turn in your old guns. So get comfortable with the PS9mms quickly.”

Reporting went on like normal. “McParland, Johnson, I know you’ve got those robberies on your plate, but I’m sending you two down to Deephaven. There have been some incidents in Greenwood and Deephaven both, and they want more help there for quick responses. Go plainclothes, take an unmarked car.”

The area in question was an old suburb. Huge trees loomed over the road, with sunlight drenching areas marked by old rotted stumps. The old ranch-style homes were almost invisible from the road, with bushes and trees hiding them from view. The houses you could see were large and well built. But every third or so had siding peeling away, or boarded up windows, or was slowly getting buried in green ivy.

Ken’s watery grey eyes watched the side of the road as his partner slowly cruised the neighborhoods, careful not to take the same street as they slowly patrolled. He was especially watching the people sitting here and there on the side of the road. Most of the homes he could see had someone sitting on the porch, a glass of water in their hand. A few had larger groups, what looked like neighbors standing around talking.

The radio buzzed. “We have a ten fifty-seven on Springhaven.”

Johnston glanced at Ken, “That’s the next street over.”

Nodding, Ken grabbed the microphone, “Ten-four. This is McParland and Johnston, we’re two minutes out.”

Following dispatch’s directions, the two pulled up to a little convenience store. A tall man, probably six three, gangly with shaggy grey hair, was pulling at the front door. White tank top, blue shorts. Flip flop sandals. Gold wedding ring, no other jewelry. Ken spotted the clerk inside, clutching a shotgun.

Thank God I haven’t turned in my old gun, Ken thought to himself. I can’t believe they’re making us carry guns made by the same people who made my kitchenware. The stuff works fine, but it's cheap as hell. A good fry pan needs more heft than that plasma shit. Even if it works as advertised, that new gun is so lightweight it's going to break some wrists with recoil. With his hand on his holster, Ken approached the guy at the door. The man’s skin was flushed, he almost looked sunburnt. Red-eyed too, the wino was squinting at the handle as he pulled back on it.

The door was marked push.

“Sir? Can we help you?” Johnston was approaching while Ken hung back. The man didn’t respond.

“Sir?” The man was wearing a tank top and running shorts. No underwear. That was a relief, an outfit like that makes it hard to carry a weapon and nearly impossible to hide one. Ken got ready to pull his taser instead.

Johnston finally got close enough and tapped the man on the shoulder. The tall guy stopped tugging on the door, furrowing his forehead. He straightened up, overcorrecting a bit and balancing by tugging on the door one more time, and turned his whole body to face Johnston.

Johnston was in khakis and a blue polo shirt, but he was wearing his badge around his neck. Between that, the shoulder holster, and the aviators it was obvious who Johnston was. The man dropped his head, noticing the badge right away, although he squinted as he focused on it.

“I just need toothpaste,” the tall man said.

“Toothpaste?” Johnston asked?

“Yeah. Toothpaste.” The man turned, suddenly, back towards the store. Ken drew his taser, kept it pointing down.

“He wouldn’t sell it! My card didn’t work, but I was only a bit short.” The man pointed into the store, and the clerk inside gripped his gun tighter. Ken used his free hand to try and wave the clerk down. No need for a civilian to get involved. Besides, who knows what the shotgun was loaded with, or how trained the worker was. If he fired out of panic he could hit anyone with a slug. If it was loaded with shot it could be worse – pellets rebounding every which way after hitting the heavy glass.

“I was only short a bit! Short, just short!” The tall man was relishing the word, nodding his head for emphasis with each repetition. “I came out here – a bit of change and I could get the toothpaste, but now I can’t get in!”

“Ok, I got you,” Johnston said, taking hold of the man by his arm. “Why don’t you come sit down for a minute. You live near here?”

There was only one car at the store, parked around back. Ken was willing to bet the car belonged to the nervous clerk inside.

“Ken, why don’t you go in and talk to the clerk, I’ve got this guy just fine.”

“Sure,” Ken nodded. He holstered his taser back under his jacket and pushed the door open. The blast of cold air was welcome, drying the sheen of sweat on his scalp right away.

“That was fast, you guys never get here that fast. I’m sick of these nutters messing with my store!” The clerk didn’t give Ken a chance to introduce himself. The clerk was a middle-aged guy, five nine. Bit of a gut, wide shoulders, curly dark hair tight against his head. A bit of grey showing at the temples. Brown eyes. Black t-shirt, black jeans, black shoes. No jewelry.

“Please put the gun down, sir.” Ken’s had was back on his holster. The clerk started, realized he was holding his shotgun still, and set it down on the counter with a small thud.

“What happened?”

The clerk answered, “This guy comes in, staggering around. He dumped a bunch of stuff on the counter for me to ring up.” There was still a tube of toothpaste on the counter, along with some ibuprofen, breath mints, nail clippers, and a leather wallet.

“He tried to pay with a card, it declined. He tried a few more cards, they declined too.” The clerk pointed at the wallet still laying on the counter. “Then the guy dumped like a buck fifty and tried to tell me it was enough.”

“I told him no way and started to take the stuff to put away. He grabbed me, told me it was enough, and then staggered outside. I left the stuff there and called 911. You guys got back in here before he came back in. He's been hanging on the door for a bit.”

Ken picked up the wallet, pulling an expired driver’s license out. “Thank you, sir. I’ll be back in a moment, get your statement. You can go ahead and put this stuff away now.”

StBack outside, the guy was sitting on a curb, with Johnston standing over him. Ken handed his partner the driver’s license. Johnston jerked his head towards the clerk inside, but Ken just shook his head. Nothing had happened that was worth the paperwork, and the clerk didn’t seem like he’d push things now that he wasn’t feeling threatened.

“So, Mr. Bowles, why don’t we get you home, sleep this off?” They got him into the back of their car and took him home. The address on the license was only a few hundred yards away, but driving him was easier than carrying him, even with the risk of vomit added in. Bowle’s house was a big brick colonial thing. The lawn was impeccable, with no weeds and recently cut. The cracked driveway was weed-free and swept clean. Only one of the front windows was boarded up. They got him inside and onto a couch, and then left.

The next incident was a burning car. Not much to do. The fire responders just let it burn out, watching to make sure nothing spread. Ken filled out the report and watched the neighbors watch the firemen watch the fire. The license plate didn’t come up as stolen, the phone number on file for the owner came up disconnected. The address on the registration was from the other side of the state. The car was a fifteen-year-old Honda. One of the people living in the neighborhood called in the fire but said they didn’t see it start, and they didn't see anyone hanging around who didn't live nearby. No signs of an accident and the car's windows weren’t broken either. After half an hour a local patrolman came by to sit on the scene until the car cooled enough to get towed.

And so the day went. A few more drunk and disorderlies, a couple of domestics, a vandalism report. One of the domestics turned into an arrest when the guy threw a punch at Johnston. If this had been their permanent assignment they would have probably stopped to chat with some of the little groups clustered here and there through the suburb, but they were only there for a week. Not much point in getting to know people if you’re not going to be there long. It was a little bit active, but to Ken, it didn't feel abnormal for the suburbs.

Ken wished they could keep working on tracking down the thefts. It’s not like they were likely to recover anything. Just some crap stolen from the university. It was probably just staff who didn't notify admin they were moving stuff around. If he was lucky it was a dumb student who took an opportunity and would be easy to identify. But odds were the stuff was simply gone without leaving behind any leads to follow up on. But he didn't want to work the robbery case just because he was itching to solve it or anything.

It’s just that he was a detective. The whole point towards the work and study he went through to make detective was so he wouldn’t have to pull patrol shifts like this. It’s not like it made a difference – drunks were drunks, wife-beaters were wife beaters. Neighborhoods like this were just full of crap. You could skim a pool all day long but there’d always be more scum on top in the morning.