Night Elves & Dark Blades Chapter 1

Kenneth Jones was an upright, young man, dark of hair and eye. Only 28 he was neither impetuous nor naïve. He was also a metropolitan police officer. He had been a police officer for the last four years, rising to the rank of patrolman. Right now though, Ken Jones was hung over, dramatically, earth-shatteringly, emesis-inducingly, hung over. His vision was blurred, and his stomach was rolling back and forth like the deck of the sloop he sailed as a kid. Ken would have called in sick, but he had no leave left. That was what happened when you let your partner get shot. You donated all of your leave to keep his family fed while he was in the hospital.

It didn’t matter that the perp who shot Billy had also shot Ken. It didn’t matter that he had warned Billy to wear his vest. It didn’t matter that Ken had gotten the perp just before he could finish the job on the both of them. It didn’t even matter that the board review had cleared both Ken and Billy of any impropriety.
All that mattered was that Billy had been in the hospital for over a month, and had been medically retired. Because Ken had not thought to check every possible hiding spot, his partner had died twice, once on the way to the hospital, in the back of the ambulance. The other had been on the table, when the doctors had tried to stitch his chest & back together. They had saved Billy’s life, but the damage had been done.

The assassin’s weapon of choice had been a twelve gauge shotgun. The slugs the prick had been using had not penetrated Ken’s trauma plate, but Billy had taken one through the shoulder; a shattered Scapula, three shattered ribs, a lung with a hole the size of an egg. Shards of bone, either from the scapula or a rib had perforated the aorta, but had plugged the holes. It was a miracle Ken’s partner had survived at all.

Shuffling up the stairs to the station, Ken tried to pull himself together. The sunglasses he wore did little to mitigate the light streaming down. Nor did the hastily applied speed-stick completely cover the scent of unwashed cop and used booze that sweated from Ken’s pores. His clothing was rumpled, and smelled a little musty, veterans of the evolving pile of unwashed laundry that was laughingly referred to as a “hamper”. While dark of hair, the five o’clock shadow was more due to his having shaved yesterday, than to his heritage.

Gathering all of his strength and will, Ken walked with just a bit of sway into the station and past the desk sergeant. The desk sergeant, a rail thin matron with iron grey hair and twenty years on the force stared disapprovingly at him, her gaze following him all the way across the lobby. He tried to stare imperviously back, but failed miserably. Once out of the public area, Ken felt a little better, and managed to get down to the locker room without incident.

Once there Ken rummaged through his locker coming up with a small, white, unlabeled bottle that contained a mixture of anti-inflammatories and analgesics. He popped six, ibuprofen and a couple of aspirin, washing them down with as much Gatorade as he could stand. The Gatorade bottle had been sitting in his locker; half drank, for several days. He hopped the drugs would kick in quickly. He closed the locker and went to wash his face, hoping to wake himself up.

Either it didn’t work, or it did and he felt even shittier awake, than he had half asleep. His face was greasy, his hair, though closely cropped, was unkempt, and the feel of his hands on his stubble reminded him of his failure to shave that day. Looking up into the mirror he met his own eyes, and realized that there was as much red, as brown in them. He was trying to find something in his own eyes, but wasn’t sure what, or even if he was having any luck.

A tiny movement on the clock in the mirror caused him to whirl around. The room continued to whirl, even after he had stopped. Forcing his eyes to focus on the clock, Ken suddenly realized why it had caught his attention. It read 0815 hrs. Roll-call had started at 0800.
Ken Jones tried desperately not to vomit as he ran towards the squad-room.

~

Captain Giovanni Giancomo Courso, a veteran of the 70’s civil unrest and an officer of the law in the style of the old school, looked out over a roomful of faces and sighed. He was looking for one particular face, and it was just not there.

Ever since that whack-job Morgan had ambushed Jones and Rosignol, Jones hadn’t been the same. It’s not like Billy Rosignol had died, or even been injured while off duty. Courso felt for him, Billy was a good cop. But he was alive, and he was on full retirement with out being too old to enjoy it. Jones on the other hand… Ken Jones just could not find a way to forgive himself. And it was beginning to show.

The door at the back of the squad-room opened quietly, and Jones, looking like he’d slept in his clothes and carrying a gym bag managed to stumble in unheard behind the drone of the briefing sergeant. He took a seat and looked like he was trying to stay awake. In the captain’s opinion this was a bad idea from the start, but Jones had taken both the written and oral examinations, and done well on them. Since the shooting, Officer Ken Jones had been in no trouble, made all of his department mandated counseling sessions, and had even talked to the pshrink. He had made no infraction serious enough to warrant withholding it from him and that was part of what pissed Courso off the most. Captain Giovanni Giancomo Courso was going to have to promote the lush and hope that he would fuck up by the numbers before he could get anyone in trouble.

Christo, but this was a bad idea if ever there was one.

As the watch commander dismissed the watch, Captain Courso called out to Officer Jones.

“Ken! Ken Jones!”

Ken shuddered at the thought of the captain berating him in front of the guys, but he was man enough to suffer the consequences of his actions, and dutifully shuffled over.

“Morning captain.” he said, as loudly as he could muster, which wasn’t very.

“Come with me.” said the captain genially.

Ken shuffled as fast as he could, trailing along behind, as the captain set off at a brisk walk.

The captain led Ken to his office and sat him down in the one chair in the office that was not comfortable. The captain’s office overlooked the park and playground across the street from one wall and the detective’s area in the opposite. His other walls were covered with photos, newspaper headlines, memorabilia, awards commendations, and manuals. Prominent among them were pictures of the captain with the mayor, the governor and a cardinal.

“What am I gonna do with you Ken?” the captain asked. “You’re a good cop, you keep your nose clean and your hand in. You have no record of any violations and no procedural errors. Hell even the inquiry about the Morgan shooting left you with no fault.”

“Captain, I shoulda…” Ken interrupted.

Captain Courso just raised his hand palm out in a gesture to halt. Ken subsided unhappily.

“Can we agree that since I’m a captain and you are just a lowly patrolman, and since I have twenty three years on the force and you have only four, and that I have been through three partners while you have only been through one, that maybe, just maybe I have a bit more knowledge on this subject than you do?”

Ken simply nodded, realizing correctly that it was the only response.

“I come to you as a father to a son. I come to you, to try one last time to convince you that it is not your fault. I need you to believe that. Can you?”

Ken looked miserable. He knew what the captain was saying. It was the same as what Billy had told him, and the shrink and the councilors and the inquiry board and even the press. But he knew it was only so much bullshit.

Courso took one look at Jones’ face and knew that he hadn’t gotten through to him. Fine, fuck you then you poor bastard.

"Give me your badge Jones.”

Ken’s thoughts were as panicky as a wren in a net. He’s gonna suspend me, or fire me. He reached into his gym bag and fished out his badge. He glanced at it sadly and then held it out for the captain.

The captain took the gold patrolmans shield and glanced at it speculatively before dropping it into the left hand drawer of his desk. His hand dropped further into the drawer and came up holding a black leather wallet.

“This was confirmed two months ago, but was waiting on some red tape.” Said the captain grudgingly "Enjoy it while you can, unless you shape up, you're gonna fuck up real soon and I'm gonna hafta land on you with both feet, Detective Jones."

The wallet fell open and inside Ken could see the silver and blue badge of a detective.

~~

Allen Nilsson knelt behind the bench in front of his locker. He was naked and his towel formed a cushion for his knees on the tile floor. The locker door was open and resting on the waist high shelf was a small bow on a stand, only eight inches long. It was well crafted and would prove completely serviceable to anyone a foot and a half tall. Behind the bow stood a glove made almost entirely from steel. Close inspection would have revealed that there was blood dried in the nooks and crannies. Allen’s only adornment was a two inch long, bronze talisman in the shape of a hammer suspended from a steel chain around his neck. Occasional personnel wandering through the locker room stared curiously at him as he muttered to himself and gestured with a small drinking horn.

“I give thanks to Ullr for teaching me his skill. I ask you for aid in hunting my prey this day. I offer you drink.” Gesturing towards the locker with the open end of the horn “I offer drink, and frith as between brothers.”

Allen reversed the horn and drank deeply, then reversed it again, gesturing once more.

“I give thanks to Tyr for teaching me of justice. I ask you to shore up my discipline for the day to come. I offer you drink. I offer drink and Frith as between brothers.” Again he drank deeply this time draining the vessel.

Standing, Allen put away the horn, bow and gauntlet in a small pouch and stowed it in the bottom of his locker. Turning he realize that he had an audience.

“Good morning, Captain Courso.” he said ignoring the slovenly stinking man that leaned against the wall near the captain.

“Nilsson, what did I tell you about doing that crap here?” Asked the captain crossly.

“The captain might have uttered a discouraging remark, but knowing that the captain is a stickler for the rules, and remembering the municiple policy of religious tolerance, I knew that the captain was just engaging in a bit of rough humor and not attempting to violate my civil rights.” replied the naked man.

The bum against the wall made a sound halfway between a cough and a gag, while the captain’s face turned the same color as a persimmon.

“Detective-Sergent Allen Nilsson, meet your new partner” the captain hiked a thumb over his shoulder at the bum “Detective Ken Jones. Jones made detective just today.”

This time it was the naked man who coughed.