Lieutenant Thatcher Davis is a simple man.
He'd always done the same thing, with little room for enjoyment in the things he did. The only thing that brought some light to his darkness was Sergeant Ruth Weaver. Her bright smile, the light in her eyes. The way she brough a sense of happiness to the seriousness and responsibilities of her job, in which she always did well.
He'd gone back, after breaking a window, and running back to the station, he couldn't leave her there without the guilt of leaving her to die. But just as Thatcher was thinking of these things, the memories with her playing like a film reel in his head, he saw her mangled body on the floor.
He stood in shock for a few seconds, unable to move, horrified by what he's seeing. Once he snaps out of it, he rushes to her side, on his knees, trying to stop the flow of blood coming from her side. "Weaver.." He said quietly, tears flowing from his eyes, his hair falling over his face. He had his radio in his other hand, frantically speaking into it, needing an immediate response from dispatch.
"Code 30-all available units." He said, all the while trying to find things around him to try to keep her alive. Her eyes were barely open, the light in her eyes fading by the second. No answer from dispatch.
"11-99-any available units!" He shouted, trying to hide the fact that he was sobbing in his voice. No answer. He cursed under his breath, moving Ruth's hair out of her face. "Weaver..Ruth..I'm so sorry.." He spoke through sobs, having a tighter grip on his radio.
"10-999-any available units!" He cried. Everything around him seemed to be spinning. The sergeant's breathing was slowing down. "..No, no no no. Ruth..stay with me. Please." He sobbed. She was his only reason to keep going the way he was. If she was gone, he'd have no reason to do anything.
Her breathing slowed to nothing.
Thatcher just looked at her dead body, unable to do anything, or move at all. The only thing he could bring himself to do, was softly speak into his radio, not even trying to hide his tears.
"10-42." His voice broke at the end, sobbing and screaming over her dead body for almost an hour. He was devastated, but even that was an understatement. He was empty. He rose from the floor, slowly, standing over her body, looking down in guilt. It had been his fault. He wasn't there in time. His blood was on her hands, figuratively and literally.
His eyes were blank. His mind was blank. He had no reason to do anything, go anywhere, or be somebody. He drew his gun from the holster. Why live with the guilt? He said one last thing in his radio. Something that he'd hoped dispatch would hear. If they couldn't hear his cries and sobs, calling for help, they were going to hear this.
"10-56."
He held the speak button for longer than intended, and he put the gun to his temple, and pulled the trigger.
