Someone Else's Lady

Working for the police department would become a slow process. It wasn't something that happened overnight. I kept my office job for a while and slowly morphed into the police sketch artist I never intended to become, but that I found rather rewarding. In most cases, high-tech software could do what I could do much more efficiently and much quicker. But there were some instances when a description was needed while the software wasn't readily available. That's where I came in. After I did a rough sketch that victims and witnesses approved of, they were later fine-tuned by the program. My sketches ranged from those responsible for assaults and thefts to rapes and kidnappings. It felt good to do what I could to apprehend society’s monsters and locate those innocently caught up in their atrocities, but it was a stark reminder of just how dark the world really was. It was not a friendly place, and no one was exempt from its potential grim side. So yeah, the stories were depressing, even scary, but I took satisfaction in knowing I was doing my best to help apprehend those responsible for at least some of the shit they put people through. And then I met Angela. I'd met several people within various divisions of law enforcement—regular street cops, undercovers, FBI agents, and even those with the U.S. Marshal Service. That's where Angela was. My job was usually done on an on-call basis. When I was at my office job, those who had been there longer were usually the ones called upon. But when it was after hours or during weekends, that's where I sometimes came in. One Saturday morning, I got a phone call from a detective named Duke. I took the bus to and from my office job but was lucky that the police department was just a couple of blocks away and I could easily ride my bike there in just minutes. So I pedaled over and found Duke waiting for me in the squad room. He had told me to look for a guy in a blue shirt and jeans, and I had to laugh because there were at least five people dressed like that out of the twenty or so milling about the large room. But Duke either knew what I looked like or he was just a lucky guesser, because he looked up from his desk where he was writing something and gave a quick wave to me. I approached the desk. "Hello, Duke." "Miss Ballard," he said with a nod. His phone rang, and I waited a few minutes while he talked to someone. When he hung up, he rose from his desk and led the way to the elevators. "What have you got for me this time?" I asked. "Well, I'm going to let one of the marshals explain that to you. She's with a vic right now." "Okay," I said as the elevator climbed to the third floor. "She can explain more about the case and all that," he said as the doors popped open. The elevators opened into a small clearing that led to a large room. Nearby, we could see a tall woman, also in a blue shirt and jeans, a gun holstered in one of those things they wear around their shoulders, standing by a desk talking to a woman sitting in a chair. The woman, Hispanic, was clearly upset about something. “Hello, Angela,” Duke said. The woman turned in her chair to face us as Angela nodded in acknowledgment. I locked eyes with Angela. Her blue eyes matched the blue of her shirt, and her light brown hair fell to her shoulders. She was tall and thin and looked to be in her late 30s. Angela had an almost intimidating, unfriendly air about her. I recognized the German accent as soon as she started talking. "This here is Akira. Her ex took their 13-month-old daughter, whom he'd recently been denied custody of altogether. Only problem is she doesn't speak good English." "Does she speak Spanish?" I asked. Angela looked at me almost hesitantly before she said, "Yes, she does." Then she looked at Duke. "Is this the fill-in artist?" "Yes," said Duke. “Her name’s Jamie.” The woman in the chair spoke in angry Spanish. Both Angela's and Duke's eyes flicked to the woman in confusion. "She's saying she's going to kill him when they find him," I said. Their eyes snapped to mine. "So you speak Spanish?" Angela asked. "And also some German and Italian," I said in German. The law officers exchanged glances. I wasn't sure what the look meant, but when Angela looked back at me, she said, "Come with me. And tell her to come along as well."