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The original was posted on /r/nosleep by /u/Saturdead on 2024-09-28 21:14:56+00:00.
I write this as a reminder. To put all that I’ve seen and heard into words. For far too long, I’ve looked back on these past few years as something impossible; something that happened to someone else. But that’s far from the truth, even if the truth and I have always had a tentative relationship at the best of times.
Consider this a confession. A peek behind the curtain of something I never would’ve believed.
Let’s start from the top.
My mother was a police officer in a busy metropolitan area. I never wanted to be a police officer like her, but it seemed inevitable. No matter what I tried to study, I would always fall back on that familiar role; the law keeper. Arbiter and diplomat. The one who settles disputes and held people to their word. For a while I thought I might get into politics, but I get too flustered in debates. I can’t stand a dishonest argument, so politician or lawyer were not an option.
So when I say that I never wanted to be a police officer, that’s God’s honest truth. But I had to be. It was the only thing that made sense.
My mother died of cervical cancer in my last year at the academy, so when I finally got to walk my own beat, I couldn’t help but to feel that I’d replaced her. My handler was very understanding of what I was going through, so when it was time to hit the streets, she cut me a lot of slack.
A little too much, it turns out.
See, there was this one part of the city that my handler told me to actively avoid. Whenever we got a call originating from this one area, my handler actively ignored it; unless it was something akin to an ongoing shootout. It got to the point where we would respond to calls, only to never show up. It was shady as hell, but practice is often very different from theory. I thought it was some kind of unwritten rule.
Turns out, it was a lot worse than I’d imagined. My handler and a couple of other officers were economically involved with what can best be described as a smorgasbord of illicit dealings. Ignoring calls allowed both traffickers and dealers to run rampant, and we got a cut of the deal. Well, they did.
The union swept a lot of it under the rug. Three officers quit their jobs and went into private security, but I didn’t want that. I still felt like I had my mom’s boots on; I was in her place. So when it was my time to plead my case, I did what I could to make a fair and reasonable argument. But as I’ve said, I’m not good in debates.
I remember the chief looking up from his papers as an advisor whispered in his ear. He gave me a concerned look.
“Obviously, we can’t keep you here,” he explained. “But if you’re really up for it, we got something in mind. But you got to be really up for it.”
I agreed. Hell or high water, I’d do my job.
This is how I ended up as a rookie in the Tomskog Police Department.
Tomskog is a shitty little rural Minnesota town in the middle of nowhere. If you don’t know where to take an uncomfortable left off the highway, you’ll miss it. There are no signs, and most people who move there never leave. It’s like a social black hole; the equivalent of unsubscribing from all internet platforms and walking into the woods.
According to the chief, a lot of officers with questionable backgrounds were given a chance to work at Tomskog PD. Not because they desperately needed people, but because it was a good way to gain some brownie points with the local government and keeping the union happy. In fact, people with questionable ethics were encouraged at the Tomskog PD.
I thought it might have to do with a lack of action. I mean, a bad cop can’t really do any harm if there’s nothing to do.
I got to the station on a foggy November morning after a hasty over-the-weekend move. There was space for two squad cars on the lot out front, but both were out on patrol. A shoddy white plastic sign with ‘Tomskog PD’ hung outside, along with the town seal; a blue sunflower on a golden shield. I’d never seen those things before I got to Tomskog, but all of a sudden, they were everywhere.
Six people looked up from their desks as I entered. Most of them paid me no mind, but the sheriff painstakingly got up from his chair to greet me. A man in his early fifties with the build of a human meatball and the handlebar mustache of an ex-wrestler. He reminded me of a cartoon character; only with less of a smile.
“Mason Brooks,” he said, offering a meaty hand. “My condolences.”
“Excuse me?”
“My condolences,” he repeated. “I imagine you ain’t too excited to be here.”
“Oh, uh… yeah, no, it’s fine,” I said. “Happy to be of service.”
“You shittin’ me?” he laughed. “Well ain’t you the bell of the ball.”
He gave me the tour of the place. The armory, the evidence lockup, the holding cells, and of course, my desk. If he hadn’t pointed it out, I would’ve thought it was taken already. There was an unwashed coffee cup and a candy wrapper on it.
“Don’t mind that,” Mason said. “People kinda come and go.”
“Didn’t figure this place would have that kind of turnover.”
“You’d be surprised.”
He picked up a name sign from the edge of the desk. It was blank.
I met my partner as he abused a vending machine. He was a balding man in his late 30’s, wearing a kind of pinkish round sunglasses that made me think of John Lennon. I offered him a bill to try the machine again, but he waved me off.
“If you hit it just right, you don’t have to pay,” he said, giving the machine another bashing.
Mason just grinned – business as usual, it seemed.
“This is Nick Aitken, your partner, and for the time being, handler,” Mason explained. “Again, my condolences.”
“Shit, didn’t I just have a partner?” Nick asked.
“Either I haven’t had my mornin’ irish or someone’s beaten my head straight, cuz I can’t see two of you,” Mason frowned. “Desk is empty, name’s gone, time for a newbie.”
“Right.”
Nick shook my hand as a coke rolled out. He seemed more eager about a free coke than to have someone watching his back. Mason gave me an apologetic smile.
“He’ll show you the ropes,” he said. “Man’s an idiot, but you’d do well to listen. Idiots live long ‘round here.”
“He ain’t joking about that,” Nick added, not looking up from his coke.
And with that, we were on our way. Nick fired up a cigarette long before we left the station, then took me round the back to a civilian vehicle. An egg-white Volvo with rust stains that reminded me of bird shit.
“All squad cars taken, huh?” I asked.
“Yeah, folks are cleaning up after Patrick.”
“Sorry, what?”
“You’ll see. Maybe.”
Tomskog has a single main road stretching through the entire town. There was a gas station, a high school, a couple of shops. A peculiar flower shop at the corner that seemed to only sell those trademark blue sunflowers. There was a sort of upward tilt on the west side of town that made the houses look stacked on top of one another. On the other side of town was a vast lake, eloquently named Frog Lake, where houses stretched out along the western ridge.
It was a peaceful enough place, and in the right light, you could tell it was someone’s home. But like with most little towns, you can’t imagine what kind of people live there. It’s like when you see a house in the middle of nowhere – who chooses to live there? What happened? I guess I hadn’t yet come to the realization that I was about to become one of those people.
Nick pulled up next to a corner pub. A place that looked old enough to have grandchildren. Before getting out of the car, Nick gave me a tired look.
“We’re just gonna talk to a guy,” he said. “He never comes into town unless there’s something shitty going on. We’re gonna have a chat.”
“Got it.”
“Don’t ask him any questions. Leave that to me. And don’t touch him, he’s a bit contagious.”
“In what way?”
“Every way that matters,” he sighed. “And what did I say about questions?”
“You said not to ask him any. You never said anything about asking you any.”
He tilted down his pink sunglasses, giving me a tired look. Shaking his head, he got out of the car.
“I give you a week, rookie.”
Stepping into the pub, there was only two other people present. The owner; a sturdy man in his 70’s who seemed transfixed on a thick-screen TV that played mostly static. The other was a man in his 40’s with long dark hair. He had a couple of silver streaks running along his ears, a clean-shaven look, and a trucker cap. Much like Nick, the guy seemed comfortable wearing sunglasses indoors.
“Digman,” said Nick. “You drag your sorry ass back to town, huh?”
“Meeting family,” the man smiled. “It’s a special day.”
“You gonna ‘cause any trouble?”
“Of course not.”
“Let me rephrase that,” said Nick, throwing me a tired look. “What kind of trouble you causing?”
“Nothing,” the man replied. “Just meeting family. Maybe going for a walk.”
Nick wasn’t very happy with that answer, but there was little he could do. They said their goodbyes, and we stepped outside. The moment we got out, Nick fired up another cigarette and called it in.
“Digman’s up to some shit,” he spoke into the radio. “Keep a tail on him.”
Mason’s voice came through. They didn’t seem to bother with codes or formalities.
“Nick, you’re a snake. You’re all tail. You stick to ‘im.”
“Come on,” Nick groaned. “The newbie can do it.”
“Do we need to have a discussion about the division of labor, Nick?”
Nick took his hands off the radio and looked up at the sky with a sigh.
“No, sir.”
That was our first assignment; spying on a civilian fo...
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