Detective Conners Displays 9mm Bullet to Command One-Nine Precinct

The brass button on Chuck Litchfield’s coat was cold against his thumb. He stood at the front desk of the One-Nine precinct, the air thick with the smell of stale coffee and floor wax, waiting for the morning’s chaos to settle into a manageable hum. It was an hour later than usual. The early morning meeting with the other Manhattan precinct captains had run long, a bureaucratic marathon that left him stiff and slightly annoyed. But he didn’t rush. He greeted Sergeant Macon, the desk sergeant who had been holding down the fort since the shift change, and asked the standard question.

“Morning, Sergeant. How goes the war?”

Macon didn’t look up immediately. He removed his Briarwood pipe from between his clenched teeth, the wood stained dark with years of use, and directed his thumb toward the stairs. “You’ve got a visitor waiting for you upstairs Cap’n,” came the reply, followed by a hardy chuckle that suggested Macon knew something Litchfield didn’t.

Litchfield hesitated. He turned back to Macon, raising an eyebrow. “Who?” he asked, sensing the trouble before it even arrived.

“Detective Conners, sir,” Macon said, a toothsome grin spreading across his face.

Litchfield shook his head, a small, weary motion, before turning toward the staircase. “What, my dear God, have I done to deserve this?” he muttered to himself, raising his eyes to the heavens as he began his ascent. He knew a visit from Conners always came with a kick to it.

Detective Banty had timed her arrival perfectly. She had arrived fifteen minutes ahead of Litchfield, a window she knew would catch most of the squad’s detectives at their desks or mulling over files. She made sure to be seen. She wore a bright red blouse that cut through the drab beige of the office walls, her badge prominently fixed at her waist. But the real statement piece was around her neck: a gold serpentine chain holding the 9mm bullet The Rat had left embedded in the sidewalk chalk outline outside her apartment several months back.

Before heading up, she had stopped at the front desk. She’d taken a few minutes to catch up with Macon, inquiring about his family and his upcoming retirement. It was a calculated move. She wanted the lower ranks to see her, to see the bullet, to feel the weight of her presence. As she walked up the stairs, she stopped to talk with each team member, ensuring The Rat saw the bullet dangling conspicuously.

The Special Victims Unit was smaller than most NYPD detective squads, a tightly-knit group of dedicated, seasoned professionals. The One-Nine’s unit was a bit of a one-off, however. Each two-man team preferred to work independently, keeping their cases close until it was necessary to go public and report their findings. Near the entrance sat the desks of Gary Thompson and Roger Combs. They looked like a pair of mismatched geeks, efficient but shifty, famous for keeping to themselves and sharing little with the other squad members. There was talk in the department of them having their own little empire within the precinct, hoarding information like dragons with gold.

Litchfield reached the top of the stairs and found Conners waiting. She wasn’t just waiting; she was positioned. The red blouse was a beacon. The bullet was a reminder. She had purposefully timed her visit to ensure that when Litchfield arrived, he wouldn’t just see a detective — he’d see a statement. And that mattered because in a unit where secrets were currency, visibility was power.