by Laura Higgins
"Transfer?" Inspector Thatcher gazed blankly at the typed form. "Why? To where?" She looked up to see a nervous gulp make its way past the tight uniform collar. "At ease, Constable," she almost snapped, partly out of habit and partly to mask her surprise. Not that she hadn't considered shipping this particular subordinate off to someone else's command--*anyone* else's command--herself, but it was quite another thing to be on the receiving end of a request to leave.
"Moosejaw, Ma'am, it should be right there on the form...oh, no, did I forget to put it in? I was sure I typed it right this time--"
"It's here, Turnbull," Thatcher interrupted him before any more blood could rush to his face. "Is there a particular reason you want to go to Moosejaw?"
"Constable Fraser, ma'am." He correctly read the lift of her eyebrows as notice to continue. "I asked him all about his previous posts one evening while we were doing inventory, and Moosejaw..." His eyes drifted to focus on some remote point beyond the walls of the room. "*Moosejaw*. The demands of a bustling city plus the challenge of the wilderness. And would you believe it, an opening. They need someone there...they need *me*. It was Fate, ma'am."
"Ah." Thatcher cleared her throat, searching in vain for some appropriate response. And she'd thought Fraser was the only one who could cause her to hear Twilight Zone music in her head. "Um, Turnbull-- I'm not sure anyone but Fraser would describe Moosejaw as 'bustling'...your previous posting was Ottawa, I believe?"
"Yes, ma'am. For two weeks after I graduated from the Academy. Then I was sent here, ma'am."
"And before that, you lived...?"
"Well, in Ottawa, ma'am. Born and raised. Of course, Moosejaw's not Chicago, ma'am...or Ottawa, for that matter...but I think I'm ready for a change. Sophistication, street smarts, a nose for high political intrigue...they can only get me so far. It's time I honed other skills. And I believe Moosejaw is the place to do it."
Thatcher blinked twice, opened her mouth, closed it, crossed to her desk and signed the form. "Godspeed, Constable."
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"Constable Turnbull really kept the file cabinets in excellent order, ma'am. If I may say so, that would be a detail you may wish to pass on to his new supervisor."
"Do you know Sergeant Weems, Fraser?" Thatcher said absently, glancing over the file that he handed her. A personnel file, consisting of little more than a manila folder and an Academy transcript.
"No, ma'am. Sergeant Weems replaced my supervisor in Moosejaw, Sergeant Evans. Sergeant Evans retired, I believe, shortly after I left. Retired quite young, actually--job stress, I heard." Thatcher resisted the urge to roll her eyes and mentally calculated Sergeant Weems' career longevity now that Turnbull was headed for his command. She returned to her perusal of the file in her hand, not that it took long. Another brand-spanking-new constable. Terrific. Turnbull at least had his areas of near-competence, and he could indeed locate most of her requests from the filing cabinet. Who knew how long it would take, now, to train another assistant, especially one who had been a cadet until last month?
A brisk knock at her office door brought both of their heads up. Even if she hadn't seen the gleam of brand-spanking-new red serge, Thatcher would have known precisely who the youngster was. It was declared in the rigid at-attention stance, in the fresh-scrubbed baby-smooth face, in the chest puffed with the importance of an RCMP officer's first assignment. "Ma'am." He nodded smartly in her direction. "Sir." Another quick nod in Fraser's direction. "Constable Cooper reporting as directed, ma'am." Cheerful, she thought. Very, very...cheerful.
"Well. Constable Cooper." She exchanged the barest of glances with Fraser as she stood. "Welcome to Chicago."
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The End.
Laura Higgins
lhiggins@ttiadmin.tamu.edu