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M.
Fraser sighed and massaged his temples lightly. A classic "good news, bad news" scenario, he supposed. The good news was that he'd finally arranged a transfer back to Chicago, and his promotion to Sergeant had put him in a position of some authority. The bad news was the current RCMP staff in Chicago, all three, had applied for transfers elsewhere within hours of his appointment becoming known.
The various political factions surrounding the "Fraser question" had made their opinions quite clear. Those sympathetic to the honest and hardworking Mountie felt his skills were wasted in what was essentially a backwater Consulate, and opposed his transfer despite his own expressed wishes. Those who felt Fraser's unorthodox methods and uncompromising nature were unsuited to delicate diplomatic functions also opposed his transfer. Then there were those who opposed the transfer on purely personal grounds, to thwart the career of an iconoclast, even for straightforward spite. Several supervisors and inspectors were already clamoring for his dismissal, claiming that it was foolish to employ a man when no one would work under him.
The result was a Consulate staff that consisted of Fraser, Constable Sargent, and what Ray Kowalski termed "a Mountie to be named later". The unfortunately named Constable Sargent was a bright and willing youngster, fresh from Depot, where he'd heard all the rumors but had never actually met Sgt. Fraser. It was already apparent that he'd either annoyed someone or had drawn the short straw in some unofficial assignment lottery. And that he'd be moving on as rapidly as was practical.
Fraser's familiarity with the routines, formalities, schedules, and rituals of Consulate life almost compensated for the man-hour shortage. Almost. But sometimes the absence of a third party was more than an inconvenience, and Fraser devoutly hoped for relief. Sargent's enthusiasm was no match for the sheer volume of paperwork, maintenance, and public education expected of the junior officers. When Ottawa finally condescended to assign a second Constable to Fraser's frazzled command, the exhausted Mountie barely glanced at the details.
Therefore, it was with considerable surprise that he received a freshly pressed and recently reinstated Constable Renfield Turnbull as his second. Turnbull's bid for political office had ended badly, and he'd "gone crawling back to the RCMP", to quote Turnbull Senior. Fraser greeted the prodigal with great composure, dismissed him gently, and dove for the pile of paperwork containing all the details of this latest inexplicable twist of fate.
Fraser was fond of Turnbull, a man as odd as he was endearing, and didn't want his own slide into what others considered disgrace and obscurity to adversely affect the younger man's career. Obviously, the relentlessly cheerful Turnbull had no idea of the firestorm he'd volunteered to bring down on himself and must be warned off for his own good. Fraser resolved to speak to Turnbull at the earliest opportunity, then returned to the never-ending stream of reports, forms, memoranda, and announcements that flowed methodically across his desk.
Hours, perhaps days, later, an apron-clad Turnbull bearing a tray of tea and sandwiches interrupted Fraser's halting inroads through the paper swamp. "A little light refreshment, sir, to keep your strength up. Chamomile tea, and some of the chicken salad Diefenbaker was so fond of." He paused, abruptly aware of his faux pas, then continued delicately. "I was very sorry, sir, to hear about Diefenbaker."
Fraser nodded without encouragement. The wolf's passing was still uncomfortably fresh, and the memories painful. "Thank you, Turnbull. You've certainly jumped right in, haven't you?"
"Well, sir, I understood that you'd been waiting for a second officer for some time, so I'm just trying to catch up as it were. Is there a problem?" Turnbull's open face clouded.
"No, no, not at all. Turnbull, do you have a moment? I'd like a word, if you don't mind." Fraser frantically marshalled his thoughts, wondering how to raise the issue of his contagious professional perdition without embarrassing his subordinate.
"I'm not sure if you're aware of this, Turnbull, but there was considerable resistance to my taking this post. The issues raised were irrelevant to the actual job, for the most part, but it has caused quite a fuss." He paused to gauge the bigger man's reaction.
A brilliant, sunny smile beamed from the Constable's unlined face. "Yes, sir. Inspector Coldwell in Ottawa was very persuasive and quite thorough in presenting the arguments against this assignment to me. Some of the reasoning was very involved, and seemed to argue for as much as against."
As Fraser took breath to plunge forward, Turnbull nattered on. "But it all seemed to reduce to a single objection, sir. Your relationship with Detective Vecchio. Or is your relationship with Detective Kowalski? It wasn't clear from what Inspector Coldwell said, and I thought it best if I didn't pry.
"Anyway," Turnbull said, heedless of the stunned and bemused man before him, "he told me to really consider this assignment from all angles and refuse it if I was uncomfortable with the effect it might have on my career. So I did. I really thought about it, but I don't think he liked my conclusion much."
"Your conclusion, Turnbull?" Fraser gasped faintly.
"Yes, sir. Well, as I said, I considered the matter very carefully and I tried to be objective. I know I'm not really promotable material, sir, so there's little anyone can do to hurt me there. And I didn't do so badly when I was here before, did I, sir? I knew you'd need someone familiar with Chicago, someone dependable.
"Also, your relationship with", he paused, searching, "the detectives is a private matter, and I wasn't uncomfortable before so I don't see why that should change. Lastly, sir, I tried to imagine what you would do in a similar situation, and the answer was obvious.
"I demanded the transfer, sir."
Sergeant Benton Fraser thought, vaguely and with the tiny, detached part of his brain that ran a drily-amused commentary through his waking life, that he'd just acquired a personal frame of reference for the verb "poleaxed". He'd always accepted Turnbull's admiration as a given, and took his loyalty for granted. Moved beyond words, staring helplessly, he watched Turnbull's brightly expectant face slowly crumble.
"I know I'm not always the sharpest knife in the drawer", Turnbull admitted, "but I know the job and I know I can do it, sir. Please don't send me away." Defeated by Fraser's continued silence, Turnbull began a slow retreat, dejected leaden feet dragging toward the open door. A raw whisper stopped him.
"Thank you, Turnbull." He turned, halfway convinced that he'd imagined the words until they were repeated with more force.
"Thank you, Turnbull. I would be honored to work beside a man of your character and courage."
And he was.