Smoke and Mirrors

The Rookie Cop

Jake was fresh out of the academy.

It was maybe ten months into his stint as a probationary officer when he responded to the first domestic disturbance report at this particular residence.

When he walked up the steps to the quaint little cottage, he and his partner Luke were greeted by a man in his mid-forties, tall, and quite regal-looking. He wore an expensive, dark suit with an exquisite silk tie. His eyes were full of malice, beady and dismissive, full of contempt for everyone.

"There's been a report of a disturbance here," Luke said as they walked up the steps and reached the door where the suited man leaned against the jamb, quite casually.

"Here?" he asked, and though he feigned surprise, his tone suggested he was mocking the young police officer.

"Yes, here. Can we come in?"

"Do you have a warrant?"

"Do we need one?" Jake asked.

"Well, it seems to me that if you're asking, you're not properly trained. Perhaps you should go back to the academy," the smug suited guy said, looking down at his nails and studying them.

This angered both cops. They had a damned job to do, why couldn't Mr. Prick just freaking answer them?

"Sir, we'd like to speak to your partner, right now," Luke said. He wasn't going to take this shit from Mr. Prick.

"She slipped and hurt herself, but she should be okay now. Babe," he called over his shoulder, still not allowing the cops into his home.

A young woman came to the door. Her light brown hair was down in disarray, her eye had clearly been hit, and she was sporting a fat lip. She wore a shirt with long sleeves, long sweat pants, and a man's cardigan which was too big on her that she held tightly wrapped around her petite body.

The rookie cop could immediately tell that she'd been beaten. Her demeanor alone screamed that she was a frequent recipient of her partner's fist. Damned motherfucker raises an angry hand to a woman. Who the hell does this asshole think he is? Jake thought.

"Ma'am, would you come this way please," the rookie cop said as he guided the beautiful, beaten woman away from the guy in the suit.

Jake looked over his shoulder at the suited man, who simply remained still, with the same stupid, smug look that the cop was itching to wipe off his face.

Luke stayed back to get information from Mr. Prick and the rookie interviewed the battered woman.

"What happened?" Jake asked sympathetically.

"I was running and slipped on our rug, went face first into the wall," came the rehearsed response.

"Do you slip often?"

"I'm clumsy, I always have been." Her answer was automatic; her voice sounded dead.

"Let us help you," he said in a lower voice so her partner couldn't hear him.

"I'm clumsy, I always have been," she repeated.

He looked into her eyes, and saw how lifeless they were. No spark, no color, just numbness.

"Let us help you, please," he said in a gentler voice.

"Not even God can help me," she muttered with the most emotion he'd heard from her yet.

She quickly turned and left, almost running back inside the house of horrors. She walked into her abuser's arms and looked up at him. "Please, get rid of them. I just want a bath," she said in a soft, mouse-like voice.