Chapter 19: Community Day
Saturday, June 23, 2018 - MacArthur Park, 10:00 AM
The community outreach event sprawled across the park—safety demonstrations, K-9 units, food trucks, kids getting their faces painted. Captain Andersen had ordered all hands on deck for positive community relations.
I manned a booth demonstrating proper 911 procedures. How to stay calm. What information to provide. When to call versus when to handle something yourself.
A kid, maybe eight, asked: "What if you see a bad guy?"
"Call 911. Don't try to be a hero. That's our job."
"But you're a hero."
I smiled. "I'm just a cop. Heroes are the people who call us when they see something wrong."
His mother took a photo. Good press. Exactly what Andersen wanted.
Movement in my peripheral vision. The hospital delegation arriving—nurses in scrubs, doctors in white coats, setting up their booth about emergency medical services.
Dr. Emma Shaw stood out. Not because of the white coat—everyone had one. Because I remembered her perfectly. Recall captured every detail from that ER visit after the pursuit. Dark hair, efficient movements, the way she'd called me stupid for chasing a suspect without backup.
She saw me. Recognition flickered across her face.
Don't be weird. Play it cool.
She walked over during my booth's lull. "Rookie from the ER. You've avoided fistfights successfully, I see."
"Learned my lesson. Backup first, heroics never."
"Good." She studied the demonstration materials. "Teaching 911 procedures?"
"Trying to. Turns out kids think cops are superheroes."
"You're not?"
"We're just people with badges and questionable judgment."
She laughed. Actual laugh, not polite professional chuckle. "I like that answer. Most cops I meet have martyr complexes."
"Give me time. I'm only nine weeks in."
"Fresh meat." She checked her watch. "I'm on break in twenty minutes. Food truck line?"
My danger sense stayed completely quiet. No warning. Just opportunity.
"Yeah. I'd like that."
Emma Shaw's POV
The rookie was different from most cops I treated. Less machismo. More self-awareness. And something about the way he'd kept that GSW victim alive last month—calm under pressure, following protocols perfectly despite obvious fear.
Plus, he was cute. That helped.
I finished my demonstration on CPR basics and headed for the food truck area. Mercer was already there, studying the menu like it was a tactical decision.
"Recommendation?" he asked.
"Tacos. Always tacos."
We ordered. Found a picnic table away from the main crowd. The park's trees filtered sunlight into dancing patterns on the grass.
"So," I said. "Nine weeks in. How's the job?"
"Harder than expected. Better than expected." He bit into his taco. "Turns out saving people feels good. Even when it's messy and complicated."
"Same with surgery. We fix what we can. Accept what we can't."
"How do you handle the ones you can't save?"
Direct question. He didn't deflect or joke. Just asked.
"Poorly." I met his eyes. "I remember them. Every face. Every case where I tried and failed. But then I show up the next day and save the next one. That's all we can do."
"Someone told me the same thing recently."
"Smart person."
"Yeah. He is."
We talked about the job—his stories of patrol, my stories of the ER. Common ground emerged quickly. Both dealt with trauma. Both saw the worst of humanity. Both had to find ways to cope without drowning.
"You use dark humor," he observed. "Deflection through jokes."
"Guilty. You?"
"Same. Also excessive organization and remembering way too many details."
"Coping mechanisms." I finished my taco. "We all have them."
A man bounded toward us—another cop, older, earnest expression. "Ethan! Making friends?"
Mercer's expression went from relaxed to pained. "Nolan. Hi. This is Dr. Shaw. Emma, this is Officer Nolan, my neighbor."
John Nolan's POV
I'd spotted Ethan sitting with a pretty doctor and naturally assumed he'd want company. That's what friends did, right? Joined each other?
The look on his face suggested otherwise.
"Dr. Shaw! Nice to meet you. I'm John Nolan, Ethan's neighbor and fellow rookie." I sat down uninvited. "Are you two on a date?"
Ethan closed his eyes. "No. We're having lunch."
"Looks like a date."
"It's lunch, Nolan."
Emma looked amused rather than annoyed. "It's a professional conversation about coping with trauma work."
"That's what people call dates now? Man, dating has changed since my divorce." I launched into a story about my ex-wife, their awkward post-divorce interactions, and how he'd ended up moving to LA for a fresh start.
Ethan's expression progressed from pained to resigned to quietly murderous.
I finished the story. "Anyway, I should get back to my booth. Nice meeting you, Dr. Shaw!"
I left them alone. Ethan would thank me later for breaking the ice.
Ethan's POV
"I'm so sorry," I said when Nolan was out of earshot.
Emma was laughing. Full, genuine laughter. "He's enthusiastic."
"He's a well-meaning disaster."
"He cares about you. That's sweet." She stood, checking her watch. "I should get back. But Ethan?"
"Yeah?"
"See you around, Officer Mercer. Try not to get injured before then."
She walked away, leaving me with an empty taco wrapper and perfect recall of every word, every smile, every moment of the conversation.
Nolan appeared from behind a tree. "So. Was that a date?"
"No. That was you ruining potential for a date."
"Oh." He processed. "Oh no. I cockblocked you."
"Yes. You did."
"I'm sorry!" He looked genuinely distressed. "I thought—I was trying to help—"
"I know." I stood, collected trash. "It's fine. Just... next time you see me talking to someone, maybe don't assume I need rescuing."
"Noted. Absolutely noted." He paused. "She seemed nice though."
"She was. Until you."
"I'll make it up to you. Wingman services. I'll—"
"Please stop helping."
Late Afternoon - Event Wrap-Up
Captain Andersen gathered everyone for debrief. "Excellent turnout. Great press. Several local news stations covered it. This is exactly the community relations we need."
The team dispersed. I packed up booth materials, ready to head home.
Armstrong appeared, friendly smile in place. "Good event, Mercer. Saw you talking with that doctor. Moving fast, boot."
My danger sense pulsed. Low-level. Not immediate threat. Just wrongness. The same sensation I got every time Armstrong was nearby.
"Just networking. Community relations."
"Sure." His smile didn't reach his eyes. "You're good at that. Making connections. People like you."
The lie detection stayed quiet—he meant the words. But the danger sense insisted something was off about the way he said them.
"Thanks, sir."
He walked away. I watched him go, adding mental notes to the file I'd update tonight.
He's watching. Paying attention. Stay careful.
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