Read the opening
Chapter 1
The heat radiated off the asphalt creating a shimmering black mirror. The interior of the car had become a rolling oven. Rob Lany cranked the aircon dial, causing it to rattle. The heavy ballistic vest made it worse. He leaned forward and attempted to peel the damp fabric away from his back. It was his first week with the Bramford City Police Department. His uniform was crisp, his boots were polished, his notebook empty. Lany had nailed the final exam, but he knew that book smarts and street smarts were two entirely different things.
The radio crackled to life: “Any units available to attend a 1S, Nixon Street, Avonlea.”
He pulled up against the curb and ripped open the glove box, pulling out a dog-eared map book. Flipping through the pages, he located the suburb, then the street, tucked in an industrial block a few kilometres away. He racked his brain, but the code “1S” drew a blank. Probably something minor, like a security alarm.
He keyed his mic. “Comms, AVQ. I can head that way.”
The emergency lighting controller sat in the centre console. Three siren pitches and a lights-only toggle. He flicked the switch, heading south along Brunswick Road towards Hillcrest. A minute later, he struck traffic. A silver Mercedes directly ahead failed to move. Lany changed the siren pitch, then leaned heavily on the airhorn, the blast piercing through the road noise. The car lurched sideways, allowing him through. On the expressway, he opened it up, the roar of the engine drowning out his nerves as he claimed the centre lane.
“AVQ, Comms.”
“Go ahead,” he said, keying the mic.
“A crime car is on scene to meet you.”
The tone of the operator suggested there was more to the story.
Lany eased on the brakes as he rolled up the exit ramp. A left at the T-intersection and he was there. The Nixon Street signpost leaned at an angle, crimped at the base by late-night vandals. As he turned in, he cut the siren, leaving only the flashing lights. The street itself ran parallel to the motorway, lined with derelict factory buildings. He coasted, scanning the entrances and alleys, tyres rolling over rough seal and broken glass.
He located the address, a narrow alleyway cutting down the left of the abandoned warehouses. He pulled in and cut the ignition. Two plain-clothes police sedans sat parked ahead. He rolled down the window. The smell of his hot brakes drifted in.
In that moment, his memory returned, 1S was the police code for a sudden death. He reached for his back pocket and pulled out a slim vinyl-covered notebook.
Arrival time: 1733 hours. Weather: clear. Entry routes: one. People leaving: zero.
He knew the theory, he’d studied for months to memorise it, but this was real. His only experience with death was his grandfather. The image of his stroke-ravaged face remained etched into his memory.
“Afternoon.”
Lany jolted back to reality as a shadow darkened his window. A detective stood outside, handcuffs and a Glock pistol on his belt. The man looked to be in his late thirties, his brow glistening with beads of sweat.
Lany climbed out of the patrol car.
“Aaron Rawson,” the detective said, extending his hand.
“Rob Lany,” he said, returning the handshake.
“I don’t think I’ve seen you before?”
“It’s my second day on the job.”
Rawson gave a short, dry laugh. “Straight into the deep end, then. Do you know what your job is?”
“Scene guard?”
Rawson looked him straight in the eye. “Corpse duty. This is a murder scene.”
Lany’s first watch has only just begun. Continue reading in First Watch.
