7 July 1982: 2345:
Rookie officer January P. Farrell slid a glance across the police car at her companion, Senior Patrolman Thaddeus X.M. Gunn. Since he drove, at least she couldn’t see his eyes. The man had the strangest, spookiest eyes, pale grey irises almost invisible, colorless in the dark.
Cold too, like an iceberg in the North Sea. Almost two hours into my first shift and I’ve already had it, right up to the eyeballs. Ugh, why did I choose that particular phrase? Can I handle six to eight weeks more of this? If I didn’t want to be a cop so bad I could taste it, I’d be outta here in a heartbeat.
She’d already had a bellyful of his supercilious, sarcastic lectures, his rules, and his attitude. It hadn’t taken an hour to discover he was cynical, arrogant, and sadistic. How could she
