Police Turmoil (Part One)
The corridors of the Seattle Police Department headquarters, covered with thick, dark red carpets, absorbed most of the footsteps, but not the suppressed growls of anger that were now seeping from the crack in the door to the deputy superintendent's office.
The air was thick with the mixed smells of disinfectant, old paper, and anxiety. The fluorescent lights cast a steady but pale glow on the clean walls and the tightly closed office doors, adding to the solemnity and coldness of the system.
"Bang!"
The heavy wooden door to the deputy commissioner's office was flung open by a hand with knuckles white from the force, slamming against the inner wall's damper with a dull thud. The nameplate on the door, "Deputy Commissioner Jonathan Miller," swayed slightly with the impact.
Police Inspector Thomas Harris strode in like an enraged Bull. He was in his fifties, tall and slightly overweight, wearing a crisply pressed police inspector's uniform, the gold insignia on his epaulets gleaming slightly under the light.
But at this moment, his square face was flushed with anger, his gray hair was slightly disheveled, and his light blue eyes were wide open, burning with flames of offense and disbelief.
He was clutching a stack of documents that wasn't too thick, but was clearly quite heavy; the edges of the papers were wrinkled from his excessive force.
He rushed to the large mahogany desk, not even glancing at the person sitting behind it, and slammed the stack of documents onto the smooth surface with a violent, almost smashing motion!
"Smack!"
The crisp sound was particularly jarring in the quiet office. Several sheets of paper slid off the top and scattered on the corner of the desk, revealing bolded titles and gruesome crime scene photos—burning vehicle wreckage, numerous bullet holes in the wall, markings made by the forensic pathologist next to the body, and a grotesque, ripped-out hole in a distant building.
"Jonathan!" Inspector Thomas's voice was hoarse with extreme anger. He leaned forward, his hands gripping the edge of the desk, his gaze like two red-hot awls, fixed on the calm face behind the desk. "What the hell are you doing?! What kind of bullshit reports have you signed these past few days?!"
His roar echoed through the walls, making the dust on the ceiling seem to fall in a flurry.
Behind the desk, Deputy Commissioner Jonathan Miller —or rather, Roger in this guise—slowly raised his head. He looked to be in his forties, wearing gold-rimmed Glasses, with a refined appearance, meticulously combed hair, a well-fitting dark blue police uniform shirt, and a neat tie.
Faced with his boss's thunderous rage, his face showed no panic, no embarrassment, not even the slightest ripple of emotion, only a gentle, almost formulaic calm.
He even curled the corners of his mouth slightly, revealing a standard and aloof professional smile, as if the furious Thomas in front of him was not there to interrogate him, but to discuss what flavor of afternoon tea should be served.
"Ha, my old friend, Thomas," Jonathan's voice was steady, even with a hint of soothing gentleness, "Why get so worked up? Sit down, have a glass of water, and talk slowly. Look at you, your face is all red, it's not good for your blood pressure." He even gestured to the empty visitor's chair opposite him.
"Speak slowly?!" Inspector Thomas was almost amused by the other party's stubbornness. Instead of sitting down, he took another step forward, his finger almost poking at the scattered documents.
"Look at this! Look for yourself! In the past 72 hours, downtown Seattle! Shooting! Explosions! They even fucking used anti-materiel sniper rifles!"
What happened in Snohomish County was even more outrageous—they even used rocket launchers! They blasted down the gates of someone's estate! How many people died? How many were injured? What was the extent of the property damage and public panic?! Tell me, is this still Seattle?
Huh?! If you didn't know better, you'd think we'd all been transported to the Afghanistan war zone! Has the Taliban attacked?!
With each word he spoke, his voice rose an octave, spittle almost landing on Jonathan's (Roger's ) face, his thick fingers pointing forcefully at the bloody and chaotic photos on the document.
"And you? My dear Deputy Commissioner Jonathan Miller!" Thomas's voice was full of sarcasm and disbelief.
"You actually put all of this in black and white, signed your name, and characterized it as -- 'a violent shootout suspected to be caused by a conflict of interest between gangs'?"
It even specifically states, 'The main suspect group has been identified as the active ABZ Team, which has experienced internal conflict due to disputes over the distribution of spoils or territorial disputes'? Are you writing a crime novel, Jonathan?!
Or do you think I, Thomas Harris, the man sitting in the police superintendent's seat, am completely blind and stupid?!
His chest heaved violently; he was clearly furious.
As the highest-ranking commander of the Seattle Police Department, a series of such heinous, militarized, and egregious cases occurred in his jurisdiction, yet he failed to receive a factual and robust investigation and response. Instead, his deputy used such absurd excuses to cover it up and suppress it. This is not only dereliction of duty, but also a blatant provocation and humiliation of his authority!
What angered him even more was the name these cases vaguely pointed to— the Walton Family, and that young Eastern man with a mysterious background who had recently gained immense popularity. He sensed danger, but he also sensed opportunity. Jonathan's actions were like putting him on the edge of a volcano and then telling him that there was a hot spring underneath.
Faced with Thomas's barrage of roars and questions, Jonathan's smile remained unchanged, and he didn't even flinch. He even leisurely picked up the steaming coffee cup on the table, gently blew on it, and took a small sip, as if savoring some exquisite delicacy rather than dealing with his boss's storm.
"Thomas," he put down his cup, leaned back slightly against the soft leather back of the high-backed chair, interlaced his fingers on his abdomen, and calmly looked at the furious police inspector behind his Glasses, "I understand your concerns and pressure. The scene was indeed... a bit too big, and it had a negative impact."
He used the understated phrase "a bit too big" to describe the rocket launcher blasting the door and the sniper rifle penetrating the wall.
"However," Jonathan changed the subject, his tone still gentle, but with an undeniable firmness.
"I signed that report based on the most comprehensive and logical chain of evidence that the frontline detectives and forensic experts could provide at the moment."
Based on on-site ballistic analysis, eyewitness accounts, and our monitoring of the movements of several active local armed groups, pointing the finger at an internal firefight within the ABZ Team is currently the most reasonable explanation.
He reached out and gently but firmly pushed the stack of documents that Thomas had slapped on the table back onto the edge of the table in front of Thomas.
"I know the Walton Family has been having some trouble lately, and many people are making connections." Jonathan lowered his voice, but every word was crystal clear.
"But we are police officers, Thomas. We talk about evidence and procedures. We can't pin all the blame on potential business rivals just because a family is rich and powerful, or because they've recently made an enemy of someone."
That's not legal investigation, that's framing. Don't forget, we're paid by taxpayers, by the law, and by the public power granted to us by this city.
He leaned forward slightly, his gaze behind his glasses fixed on Thomas's eyes, a gentle look that felt like a cold probe.
"Old Walton, or one of his business rivals, doesn't represent all taxpayers, nor does he represent the law, don't you agree, my dear Inspector?"
These words, spoken casually, were like a bucket of ice water, suddenly poured onto Thomas's burning rage. He abruptly stopped his subsequent roar, the intense red on his face fading slightly, replaced by a deeper, more complex expression, a mixture of surprise, deliberation, and a hint of barely perceptible apprehension.
He stared intently at Jonathan, trying to find even the slightest flaw, guilt, or compromise beneath the man's perpetually gentle and calm mask. But all he saw was a bottomless calm, and beneath that calm, an unwavering resolve.
Thomas suddenly realized that Jonathan was determined this time. He wasn't fooling around or being perfunctory; he was drawing a clear and uncompromising line in this way—this matter would be handled as a "gang fight" and would end there. The Walton Family wouldn't be able to use this as an excuse to cause trouble.
Thomas knew perfectly well who was behind Jonathan. The powerful senator in the state legislature had always been a strong supporter of Jonathan. As for Thomas himself, although he also had the mayor as a backer, the delicate balance of power between the mayor and the senator prevented him from easily breaking off relations.
If I insist on digging deeper and steer the case toward "murder," "terrorism," or "attack against the Walton Family," I will inevitably clash with Jonathan and the Senate forces behind him.
Without any solid evidence to immediately bring down the other side, this could very well turn into a lose-lose political quagmire. In that case, let alone gaining political capital, one might not even be able to hold onto their current position.
The anger still burned in his chest, but reason and the instincts of a political animal began to cool it down rapidly, and he began to recalculate the gains and losses.
The air in the office seemed to freeze, leaving only the silent exchange of glances between the two men and Thomas's heavy, unsteady breathing.
A few seconds later, Thomas's facial muscles twitched violently. He suddenly reached out and grabbed the stack of documents that he had slammed on the table and that Jonathan had pushed back, the movement rough and the papers rustling.
He didn't look at Jonathan again, nor did he utter another word. He simply glared at Jonathan one last time with his eyes, which still held a lingering anger, but which was mostly forcibly suppressed, before abruptly turning around and striding towards the office door.
The boots thumped heavily on the carpet, revealing the owner's extreme unease.
The heavy solid wood door slammed shut behind him with a louder "bang" than when he entered, making the walls seem to shake.
Silence returned to the office.
The gentle smile on Jonathan's face vanished as the door closed, like the receding tide. He picked up his coffee cup again but didn't drink it. He simply stared at the dark brown liquid inside, his eyes deep and thoughtful, as if he were pondering something, or perhaps thinking of nothing at all.
A few seconds later, he picked up the internal phone, dialed a number, and ordered in a calm, even voice, "Have the detective in charge of the ABZ case come to my office. I need to polish a few details in the report on the arrest and interrogation of that 'small fry.' Be quick."
He hung up the phone, leaned back in his chair, and gazed out at the gloomy sky.
His refined and calm face was vaguely reflected in the windowpane.
And those eyes hidden behind the lenses, cold, indifferent, seemingly inorganic.