Chapter 31: The Dark Call
Tuesday, November 20, 2018 - South LA, 3:47 PM
The call came in as a standard noise complaint. Neighbors reporting shouting, child crying. Apartment 2B, Slauson Avenue.
Tim drove. I rode shotgun, finishing paperwork from our last call. Routine day. Traffic stops, welfare checks, nothing memorable.
My danger sense pulsed as we turned onto the street.
Low-level. Background radiation. Something ahead.
"You feel that?" Tim asked, reading my expression.
"Something's off."
He didn't question it. Not anymore. Just nodded, adjusted his approach. Parked two spaces away instead of directly in front. Better tactical positioning if things went sideways.
The apartment building was old. Seventies construction, paint peeling from stucco walls, security gate broken and hanging at an angle. The kind of place where people minded their own business until they couldn't anymore.
My danger sense intensified as we climbed the stairs.
Violence. Recent. Ongoing.
"Wait," I said at the door.
Tim stopped, hand moving toward his weapon. "What?"
"Someone's hurt inside. It's bad."
He studied me. "How bad?"
"Bad enough."
The shouting had stopped. That was worse. Either it was over, or someone couldn't shout anymore.
Tim knocked. "LAPD. Open up."
Silence.
He knocked again, harder. "LAPD. We're coming in."
Still nothing.
My danger sense screamed. Child in danger. Woman injured. Male suspect, violent, unpredictable.
"We need to breach," I said.
Tim looked at me. Trusting the instinct he didn't understand.
"Do it."
I kicked the door. Lock splintered. We entered fast, weapons drawn.
The apartment smelled like copper and cheap beer. Small living room, kitchenette to the left, hallway to the right. Furniture knocked over. Broken glass scattered across the floor.
And blood. On the walls. The carpet. The overturned coffee table.
A man stood in the center of the room. Mid-thirties, tank top soaked in sweat, fists bloody. Rage in his eyes that hadn't dissipated yet.
A woman lay on the floor near the couch. Not moving. Face swollen, blood streaming from her nose and mouth.
And in the corner, behind an overturned chair: a child. Boy, maybe seven years old. Knees pulled to chest, eyes wide and empty. That specific kind of empty that comes from seeing things no child should see.
My recall activated automatically. Captured everything. Every detail. The mother's injuries—orbital fracture likely, broken nose certain, possible rib damage from her position. The child's Spider-Man shirt, torn at the collar. The father's expression—not remorse, not shame, just fading anger like a fire burning out.
I'll remember this forever. Every detail. Perfect clarity. For the rest of my life.
"LAPD! Hands up!" Tim's voice cut through the scene.
The man blinked, like he'd forgotten we existed.
"Hands up. Now."
He complied slowly. Muscle memory. Not his first arrest.
Tim moved on him. Cuffed him. I holstered my weapon, went to the woman.
"Ma'am, can you hear me?"
She moaned. Conscious. That was something.
"Ambulance is coming. Stay still."
The child hadn't moved. Didn't react when I approached.
"Hey, buddy. I'm Officer Mercer. You're safe now, okay?"
Nothing. Just staring at the wall.
I knelt beside him, keeping distance. Didn't touch. Trauma victims needed space.
"What's your name?"
Silence.
"Do you like Spider-Man? That's a cool shirt."
His eyes shifted. Looked at me. Recognition of being spoken to, but no response.
The recall was still running. Capturing his face, the specific shade of fear in his eyes, the way his small hands gripped his knees so tight his knuckles were white.
This will never fade. I'll see this kid's face every time I close my eyes for weeks.
St. Vincent Medical Center, 4:23 PM
The ambulance took the mother—Maria Gonzales, thirty-two years old, third domestic disturbance call to this address in six months. Severe facial injuries, possible internal bleeding. The boy—Miguel, seven years old—rode with her, silent and shaking.
We followed for statements. Procedure. The father was processed, taken to holding. Twenty-three prior arrests, including two previous domestic violence charges. Both times, Maria had refused to press charges.
My recall helpfully provided every detail from those previous reports. I remembered reading them during my first week. Standard pattern: violence, arrest, victim recants, case dropped, violence escalates.
Tim filled out paperwork in the waiting room. I stood near the ER entrance, watching doctors and nurses move through their choreographed emergency dance.
Emma appeared from behind a privacy curtain, pulling off bloody gloves. She saw me, and her expression shifted from professional focus to concerned recognition.
She walked over. "Bad one?"
I couldn't speak. Just nodded.
She didn't push. Didn't ask for details. Just squeezed my arm once, quickly.
"I'm treating your victim now. She'll survive. Broken orbital bone, severe concussion, cracked ribs. But she'll survive." Pause. "Come find me when your shift ends. We'll talk. Or not talk. Whatever you need."
Then she was gone, back through the curtain to do what she did—put broken people back together.
End of Shift - 6:47 PM
Tim didn't ask if I was okay. He knew I wasn't.
"Go home. Shower. Sleep. Tomorrow's a new day."
"Is it always like this?"
"The bad ones? Yeah. They stick with you." He closed his locker. "First really bad one hits different. You'll think about it for days. Maybe weeks. That's normal. What's not normal is not thinking about it. If you stop caring, you're done."
"I don't want to stop caring."
"Then you won't. But Mercer?" He turned to face me fully. "You can't save everyone. You can't fix everyone. That mother—she might go back to him. Probably will. The kid might grow up and repeat the cycle. That's not your failure. You did your job. You got them to the hospital. What happens next is their choice."
"That's not good enough."
"I know. But it's all we can do."
He left. I sat in the locker room alone, staring at my hands. Clean now. But my recall showed them covered in Maria's blood, holding pressure on her wounds while we waited for the ambulance.
Perfect memory. Perfect recall of trauma.
This is the cost. This is what the power takes from me.
Hospital Cafeteria - 7:12 PM
I found Emma sitting alone, eating what looked like hospital food but somehow worse. She saw me approaching, waved me over.
"Sit. I'll get you coffee."
"You don't have to—"
"Sit."
She returned with two cups of terrible cafeteria coffee and a sandwich she insisted I eat even though I wasn't hungry.
We sat in silence for three minutes. She didn't push. Just waited.
"Seven-year-old kid," I finally said. "Miguel. Watched his father beat his mother nearly to death. Just sat in the corner, silent. No tears. No screaming. Just... empty."
"Shock. Dissociation. Defense mechanism."
"I'll remember his face perfectly." The words came out raw. "Forever. Every detail. The kid's face. The blood. The father's expression. The mother's injuries. I can close my eyes right now and see it like it's still happening. Like I'm back in that apartment."
Emma set down her coffee. "That's the cost of caring. If you didn't remember, didn't feel it, you'd be a bad cop. The fact that it hurts means you're a good one."
"I don't feel good."
"You're not supposed to. Not after something like that." She leaned forward. "You want to know what I did after my first really bad trauma case? Twenty-year-old, motorcycle accident, massive internal injuries. I did everything right surgically. Everything. And he still died on my table. I went home, drank an entire bottle of wine, and cried for two hours."
"Did it help?"
"Not really. But it let me feel something other than helpless." She pushed the sandwich toward me. "Eat. You need fuel. Your body's running on adrenaline and trauma. That crashes hard."
I ate mechanically. The sandwich tasted like cardboard but she was right—my body needed it.
"The mother," Emma said after a moment. "Maria. She's stable. Severe injuries but she'll recover physically. I tried to get a social worker involved. She refused. Said she fell down the stairs."
My lie detection would have caught that immediately. But Emma's expression said she didn't need powers to know the truth.
"She'll go back to him," I said.
"Probably. Statistically, yes. That's not your failure."
"Everyone keeps saying that."
"Because it's true." She stood, grabbed our empty cups. "Come on. Walk me to my car."
Hospital Parking Garage - 7:34 PM
The garage was dim, fluorescent lights buzzing overhead. LA's evening air carried the smell of exhaust and distant ocean salt.
Emma stopped at her car—a practical Honda Civic, clean but well-used. She unlocked it but didn't get in.
"Tomorrow's our third date," she said.
"Yeah. Looking forward to it."
"We can postpone if you need—"
"No. I need normal. I need something that isn't blood and broken families."
She studied me. Then stepped closer.
"The job doesn't make you broken, okay? It makes you human. The fact that you feel this deeply, that you remember, that you care—that's what makes you good at it. Don't let one bad day convince you otherwise."
"How do you do it? See the worst things and still..."
"Still what? Still function? Still date? Still smile?" She shook her head. "I don't know. Coffee helps. Wine helps. Therapy definitely helps. And having someone who understands the weight makes it lighter."
She kissed me.
Quick. Gentle. Her hand briefly touching my face.
Then she pulled back, cheeks flushed.
"That was selfish. Bad timing. You just had a traumatic call and I'm—"
"Don't apologize."
"I needed you to know that there's good too. Horror and hope, right? That's what we do. We see the horror so we can appreciate the hope."
She got in her car, started the engine.
"Tomorrow. Seven PM. I'll pick you up. Wear something nice."
"Still not telling me where we're going?"
"It's a surprise. And Ethan?" She leaned out the window. "Get some sleep. Real sleep. The job will still be there tomorrow."
She drove away. I stood in the parking garage, processing.
Trauma and first kiss, minutes apart. The duality of this life.
My recall captured both perfectly. Miguel's empty eyes. Emma's lips on mine.
I'd remember both forever.
Horror and hope.
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