Red line: Kelpie.

April 2023.

He had always considered himself a skeptic. The scary stories of his coworkers were nothing more than fairy tales that could only scare a child. Especially when Collins told of a boy from a mysterious village who once rode a pig and then the animal stood on its hind legs… or how a man turned to stone… or how a man turned to stone… or about how a man turned to stone at such and such a lake, sitting on the bank of a river. Is it possible to be afraid of such stories? Reed was amused not so much by the next story as by the serious look on his colleague’s face as he recounted the whole damn thing. No, he respected the good-natured man who, along with Hank, had helped him get a job when Reed graduated from the academy. He’d often bought him a beer after work and even taken him to barbecues a couple times, but they’d never become close friends. And that wasn’t Ben’s fault. Gavin himself preferred to keep his colleague at a little distance, and he himself didn’t know why he did so. He worked as a detective for the Detroit Police Department on Third Avenue. The title “asshole” he didn’t give to anyone. He was considered ambitious and incredibly arrogant. With the latter, of course, you can argue, but he was in no hurry to destroy such a wonderful legend created around him. Despite the fact that many people disliked him, it was better than treating him like a snotty intern. Incidentally, the man had interned here while temporarily assigned to Anderson. Being a sergeant at the time, Hank literally dragged the guy around by his ears, helping him in any way he could. There were even jokes that Hank had another son. So Reed had to literally sway himself to keep from being touched by gossip about why the sergeant was hitting on him. Getting into all the nuances of his future profession, Gavin himself made sure that after training he was enrolled in the patrolmen. Of course, for the sake of the finish he had to spoil someone, but Fowler even liked it. Creative officers are needed everywhere, he said at the time. From that point on, Reed’s reputation began to grow. The image of the bad cop was supported by light stubble, slightly disheveled dark brown short hair and ended with a scar across his face. But for all his “flaws” he wasn’t particularly career-oriented. A promotion certainly wouldn’t hurt, but then there would be more documentation. As soon as he turned his head toward the lieutenant, his gaze immediately settled on the piles of unverified and unfinished reports. It had been a long time since Gavin had gotten that stupid 'Anarchy' tattoo on his neck. He’d wanted to forget about that teenage silliness, but it turned out to be a lot more complicated than that. That area of his skin sometimes itched so badly that he had to tie a bandana around it so no one would see the redness on his neck. He once had a piercing in his right ear. A relic of the past. And the beginning of a new life for Reed. That’s what he thought when he made friends with some strange kids outside the school he attended. However, his parents forbade him to do anything at the end of the school year when they found out from the teachers what their “favorite” kid was doing outside of school hours. In junior high school, he flushed money, smoked pot and sold a substance similar to cocaine, only the pellets were larger and had a red hue. As soon as Reed graduated high school, his stepfather found him a job as a plumber. - Even people like that are needed in society. More importantly, they can work without an education,” the half bald freak said with a chuckle. Gavin just gave the jerk the middle finger, for which he often got his ass kicked. Good thing his mother had stepped in one day and suggested he go to college, which he now barely remembered. That he needed the money and got involved with his old friends a couple years later, he remembered much more clearly. He never finished college, ran away from home to live with his new old friends. Got an anarchist tattoo and was an outlaw for a long time. He grew up on the streets. Until that fateful day that is now hard to forget. It was Anderson who gave him more than one lecture before something in his then-young brain began to work properly. For the first time in his life Reed thought about his future and after two cups of good coffee he agreed to start studying again. The next stop was the police academy. And here he was. He had made it to the rank of detective and had less than rosy grades among his coworkers. But he didn’t care about that anymore. What mattered was that he and Hank had developed a cordial, if not friendly, relationship. And the captain was more loyal at the expense of his mentor. And the captain was more loyal because of his friendship with Hank. He hadn’t fired him yet, though he had as many penalties as the lieutenant. Despite his temper and bachelor lifestyle, his desk was always in order. A computer, in addition to a mountain of reports, an organizer with writing materials, sometimes a couple or three half-empty cups of not quite good quality coffee. In general, nothing superfluous. He was dressed decently, too: a dark green V-neck T-shirt, blue jeans, and a hooded leather jacket. Chen, by the way, had given it to him for his last birthday (which he wasn’t going to celebrate). Nevertheless, the man was very grateful to her. The badge was on his left hip, the handcuffs and holster on his right. He never switched them back and forth. Everything suited him, but the monotonous calls grew tiresome. Shootings in alleys, another domestic assault that usually ended with a reconciliation and a promise to never hit a woman again. “Fucking bullshit!” Reed once told his friend how bored he was in his hometown. Monotonous petty crimes that regular officers could handle because they were almost never life-threatening. After work, not often, but had to listen to the silly humor of friends, which, by the way, could be counted on the fingers. That was the only reason why the man would let himself be dragged to a cafe or bar, order a non-alcoholic cocktail and drink one pint at a time all evening. He drank in small sips and smiled like a fool at the silly stories. And when he came home late, he only had enough strength to feed the cat and go to bed without undressing. And so on and so on. Until finally he found himself here. In the psychologist’s office. Reid didn’t believe that ordinary communication could work a miracle and help him get rid of his inner problems. By the way, Tina didn’t believe in it either, but, like Fowler, had been chasing him around to psychologists. The captain had even threatened to fire him for the fact that his subordinate had practically lost his mind. A teenage girl greeted him from the doorstep, showed him where to put his boots and hang his jacket. She led him down a long hallway to a large, semi-dark room. The detective had never been to a psychologist before, but for some reason he was sure that the office should be bright, the walls painted in pastel or vomit-pistachio colors. And chairs should stand opposite each other, so that the specialist could look into the face of the client and analyze the facial expressions of his reactions. Find, so to speak, weaknesses and hit them. Kind of like an interrogation, only softer. But instead, all he could barely make out were the wall shelves above the desk’s work surface, lit by two sconces. The windows were covered with light-tight curtains, so the man was helped to the couch by the girl with the mouse tail and disappeared behind the ajar door with the words, “Wait.” And here he is lying on a soft dark couch after conducting a written “blitz”. How could this asshole help him deal with his inner demons by asking all these stupid questions? Reid grinned, one hundred percent sure that all these therapists were just plain money-hungry extortionists, period. The man heard a rustle in the room. - Relax, please. The quiet, husky voice couldn’t have belonged to a young professional. Reid was sure of it for some reason. The image of an older, if not older, man with silver hair and a goatee came immediately to mind. Maybe that was why it was semi-dark in here, so people wouldn’t be intimidated by this man? Reid was willing to bet he heard a quiet giggle, but the rustling of papers instantly drowned it out. “What the hell is he doing reading like that?” - Let’s start by introducing ourselves. I’m Conrad. What’s the best way for me to address you? - Gavin,” the man said quietly, not feeling entirely comfortable. This Mr. Brainiac knew who Reed was, didn’t he? Why all this foolish questioning? - I hope you didn’t have any trouble filling out the little questionnaire at the entrance? Let’s get right to the point, what the hell? - The questionnaire you filled out has some pretty superficial information about you. And I need to look a little deeper. “Oh, shit!” - A lot of people prefer to draw what bothers them, Gavin. Would you like to try it? “Shit!” Reed wasn’t an artist. To this day, his coworkers remember the scribbles on cardboard he drew with Miller on a stand at the entrance to the police station. I no longer remember what the project was, but there was more work hanging than usual, and the detective could tell you with certainty why. It was entertainment for the public. - No… No, I’ll get my head together. Just a second. There was silence. The same hoarse voice of the therapist, not immediately, but began to envelop the policeman, driving all nervousness out of his head. The measured sound of a pendulum, presumably on the desk, lulled him to sleep, and gradually Reid stopped thinking about all his problems, leaving them behind the threshold of this strange office. His thoughts were tuning into that unfortunate day that the man was afraid to tell anyone about. He sighed. - Anyway, I went out of town for work,” Gavin cleared his throat, wondering how to continue his monologue.