It was the sort of day that I hated the most. The sort of days that creeps up on you, then announces its presence with bullhorns and buzzers and floodlights, then drops responsibilities on your lap like a jilted lover her prom baby on her cheating boyfriend. I hated those days with a fevor that many question. Even the day's name is grating to the ears.

Monday. What a pathetic name.

So I walked into the precinct as usual, the taste of last night's bar-hopping-at-home session lingering in my mouth, tasting like I had eaten an ash tray. Swinging by the mail room proved fruitless. Detectives like me don't get summons, the department wants a more, and I quote, “level headed, reliable” expert witness to their cases. Only a small memo made the trip into the mail room worth while – the usual drivel about inter-office betting pools being banned; I'll be sure to pull this out next time I start loosing in the sweet-sixteen college basketball brackets.

Gambling at a police station, you think us corrupt or something? Here's the secret: Policemen and Policewomen are people too. Shocking, huh? We go to our job, do our time, and go home, just like everyone else. My job? I'm a detective. I solve cases, investigate crimes, handle evidence, and hassle perps into talking. Well, I try, at least. Fifteen years at this joint, and I am still stuck in a cubicle with my partner.

“Hey Emily, good morning!” Dear god, that voice was the last thing I needed to hear. She was my work partner, Kenna Harrold, a porcupine, a three year 'vet', and spent two of those years on the beat. She was a dyke too, you could tell from the way she wore her uniform; she put an insane amount of pride and care into donning that sky blue top, black slacks, socks, and shoes, and that “Spiral PD #345” badge squared perfectly on her right breast. She even wore her cap indoors, when virtually everyone else tossed theirs off immediately. Every straight woman I know at this joint wears skirts and ease up on the uniform code when they spend most of their time at a desk. She also keeps one of those calendars with near-nude women on the wall of the cubicle, which is just a minor tell.

“Soft voices before Noon...” I had to remind her, her voice pounding at my ears like a jackhammer at poorly cast Union cement. I eased my frame into my desk chair and booted up the aging computer. “And there's nothing good about it. It's raining, it's cold, and I found out that Umlaut Ale does not age well last night, but I drank it anyway because I didn't want to think about coming here.” It was harsh, but true. You don't become a detective because you love your job, you become a detective because you are good at what you do.

She responded simply enough by slapping a bunch of papers on top of my keyboard. “I've run those background checks you asked on the suspects in that hit and run case last week, got the report on that analysis on that fake ID we found on that 16 year old who hit on you at the Kessel Run bar, the autopsy report on that John and Jane Doe that we found last friday, and here's the release forms for the cold case files that you asked for.” And that's why she is my partner. She may still be wet behind the ears, but she is good at manipulating that phone and keyboard. She can get me files in hours in what it took me days to wrangle through the red tape and telephone tag. It also helped that she is a very decent driver, is certified to pursue a perp via automotive, and has handcuffs in addition to a badge, something I lack. Hell, I don't even have a driver's license anymore thanks to a pesky DUI that I had gotten five years ago. Almost got me fired if I hadn't had solved the most cases that year.

“Kenna, how's our schedule today?” I asked as I thumbed through the reports.  Another good thing about her is that she knows its her job to do this stuff, I don't have to thank her mindlessly for something she is supposed to do.

“We're on call... nothing major yet.”

“Great, you jinxed it, we're gonna get a call, and it's gonna be a pain in the ass case, some sort of clean robbery that I'm gonna slave over for months when most would have given up right away, all to put some perp away for a month or two for the theft of $230.” I can't help it, it's who I am. When I get into an interesting case, I latch my teeth into it like a python wrapping around a rodent, knowing that soon, it will have sweet sweet justice.

And just as I say that, it happens. “Kenna, Emily, we've got a break-in at Mi-Nahow Ratling Resturant, you're on the case.” Our boss, a heavyset human yells out from his bunker of an office. Fuck... that means we are sent right out into that rain again... but hey, that means we earn our keep in this messed up world.

My name's Emily Benson. I'm a Detective. This is my story.