12
Erin gives a tap on the door and I throw her an anxious look.
“Come in,” Michael calls out from behind it.
Michael’s office is small. One window with a view of the police station car park. One tiny desk, with barely enough space for a laptop and a framed photo of his wife and kids. And two filing cabinets. If he really wanted a bigger office, I’m fairly confident that he could get one. But something tells me that he isn’t the type of guy who’d give a crap about such mundane things. And anyway, between going on call-outs and working at The Facility, he’s hardly here.
“You wanted to see us, sir?” I ask.
Michael is sitting behind his desk, wearing a white shirt and blue tie, holding a mug of coffee. “Oh, hi, guys. Take a seat.” He points to the empty chairs at the other side of the de
