That Once Was Hamish Maynard

Title: That Once Was Hamish Maynard
Notes: The characters featured in this story are my original property and are from my novel, "Philosopher's Stone". The City of Crossroads is the property of Matthew Adair and is used with permission.
Additional Note: This story was written for my Crime Fiction professor, and, as such, is dedicated to Dr. Peter Mcclusky.

It was the kind of thing that was never supposed to happen.

Police officers trained to keep people safe.

People got murdered.

Police officers weren’t supposed to be the ones to get murdered at all; especially not the ones who had already drank themselves into the cushy position of an instructor at the training academy.

But, she figured, sometimes, that was just the way it was…

Brushing her bangs backwards, she squared her hat down on her head, and sucked in a deep breath. Where to begin…?

Her hands came to rest firmly on her hips. A technician was taking photographs of the body. She dismissed it coldly as anything but a corpse. She should… break out her latex gloves? Or canvas the area for suspects and witnesses? Well… It wasn’t like the corpse was going dancing anytime soon…

She considered thumbing through the casebook and double-checking the crime-scene procedure, but she managed to restrain herself. Looking down, she spotted something on the floor, and swooped down upon it. It was a button. Her throat tightened a little as she studied it, before her shoulders slumped. Rolling her eyes a little, she ran a hand over her jacket. She was always losing the damned things…

She had just decided to give a quick search of the area to look for any hints of---

“Howard!”

She jumped, losing her balance a little and falling to the side. Her momentum spun her to the right, and she threw up the hand that wasn’t clenched around the button to clamp sheepishly on the back of her head.

Strong fingers closed over her arm, steadying her before she could topple over. “Howard, what are you doing here?”

She smiled brightly, closing her eyes. “I came to see you!”

“Howard, honey, you can’t really be in---“

“You’re my thesis.”

She blinked. “What?”

She put her hands behind her back, and popped it. The other woman watched the button fall from her sleeve and roll away, before bringing her eyes back to her face. Howard grinned. “You’re my thesis project.”

She face-palmed. “Howard---“

The pink-haired girl had turned again to look at the body. Her face was serious, and her voice, almost wistful. “Had to be pretty strong to deliver a blow like that…”

Distracted, she shrugged, confidant that Howard was studying her out of her peripheral vision. “Could have just fallen from the upper level.”

“That’s unlikely, though, isn’t it?” She glanced over her shoulder then. “Prussia, please let me help you.”

She sighed. “Okay, honey. Okay…”

---

Hamish Maynard had been extremely well-liked. Nexus Police Academy Campus, or Nex-Pac, was shocked and distraught by the mysterious and sudden death of its most popular shooting range instructor.

When she had learned that the agent in charge of the inquiry was Lieutenant Guam, she had scurried over to the Personnel Department to request her Thesis Project paperwork.

The forms had been granted, and the project immediately cleared. Everyone knew how well Prussia Guam and Hazaar Howard worked together. Everyone knew how close Hazaar Howard had been to Hamish Maynard. Personal didn’t always have to be a bad thing. Sometimes, personal meant passionate, professional, and perfection.

...Sometimes, it just meant profanity.

The boy hit the fence with a muffled clang. “I’m sorry, FUCKHAT, I must not have HEARD you properly. WHERE did you say you were dicking when the Instructor was killed?”

The boy’s lips pulled back in a grimace. “Can’t hit me, bitch! I got rights!” He jerked his head at the woman behind him, badge clearly visible on one perfectly-formed hip.

Prussia yawned. Howard hit him again. The boy yelped. His nose crunched.

“I wuz sleepin’, okay?!”

“The whole time? You never noticed or heard anyone or anything?”

“I wuzn’t in the office! I went back to the shedz!”

Disgusted, Howard dropped him. “A man died because you left your post.” She snarled, voice cold, “I’d find a new line of work, if I ‘wuz’ you.”

When she turned to walk away, he snarled at her, fist raising with the tone of his voice, “Listen, bitch, I don’t gotta---“

Prussia reached out then, her well-manicured nails slicing small half-moons into his shoulder, through the thin fabric of his grey uniform. “I think,” Her voice was smoky, an interesting counterpoint to the vicious grip that was making his arm numb, “I think that you should listen to her, kid… Find a new spot, before someone finds it for you, yeah?”

Prussia was smiling when the boy raced out of the alley. Howard was not smiling. She was shaking.

---

They had settled down on Prussia’s sofa, beers in hand. Howard was staring blankly at the television set, when Prussia reached out to touch her hand.

Even through the sturdy black cloth of her gloves, she could feel both the warmth, and the unasked question in that touch. She pulled away. “I’m fine.”

“When was the last time you saw him?”

“This morning.”

“Alive, Howard.”

She sighed, and ran a hand through her hair. She winched as the button on her sleeve caught in the strands for a few minutes. The action had pushed her hat completely off, and it fluttered to the floor. “Yesterday… He said…” Her voice locked up, and she tried to cover it with a great pull of her beer. Howard choked, spluttered, and proceeded to cough rather heavily.

When she had recovered, Prussia was smoothing a gentle hand across her back. “What did he say, honey?”

She hiccupped. “He said… he told me I was pretty.”

“You are pretty, Howard.”

She snorted softly; gaze steady on the other woman’s flawless face. “No, I’m not.” She took a drink that she could manage this time, and sighed. “You were never as close to him, were you?”

“No.” Her voice was a little hoarse with honesty. Hamish Maynard had been the only man in Prussia’s life at the Academy who hadn’t wanted to be very close to her. But then, Hamish had never been like that with any of the cadets.

In the sticky silence that followed, Prussia almost thought that Howard was about to cry. Then, the girl’s face settled into a grim mask.

“It’s okay to miss him, honey.”

She shook her head. “Not for me, it’s not.”

“Howard…”

She drained her beer and slumped over the arm of the sofa, picking at the button on her left sleeve. “Can we just watch the goddamn TV?”

Prussia nodded slowly. “Okay, honey. Okay…”

---

On the third day that Hamish Maynard had been dead, Howard and Prussia entered his office.

Howard had rummaged in her wallet and come up with a key to the inner offices. They were leaning on the railing that kept them from tumbling the three stories down to the shooting range below, staring down at the chalk figure of a man.It was only a few haphazard streaks of white powder on a worn ruber floor, but it represented what had once been a man beloved by the Academy...

“Howard,” Prussia said finally, “Why are we here? Security’s already searched the office, and found nothing out of the ordinary, no sign of foul play in here…”

She blew out a breath that seemed long-held. “My stuff was always in here… They knew that…”

“Did you want to get something?”

The look Howard gave her then was almost challenging. “I have some clothes up here I need to take home.”

“Clothes?” Prussia turned to stare at her. Howard was picking up a jacket that had been left upon the desk’s chair.

“Howard, you and Maynard weren’t---“

The younger girl’s eyes were noticeably darkened and wet. “God, Prussia… I couldn’t… You know I couldn’t… He was like… My father… I couldn’t…”

She was shaking again, her gloved hands unconsciously folding and unfolding the jacket they held. Prussia could clearly see that it was missing several buttons near the top. She clearly recalled the button that had rolled out of her sleeve as Howard had sheepishly explained that they would be working together… Howard, in that same jacket, on her couch picking at the button on that very sleeve…

When she finally met the girl’s eyes, Howard was standing perfectly still. “…He told me I was pretty…” She whispered softly.

The realization that gripped Prussia then was lead in her stomach. “…You are pretty, honey… Just… sometimes… You hit too hard…”

Howard crossed the space to the railing, staring blankly at the chalk outline of the man that had been Hamish Maynard.

Her face was twisted into what was nearly a smirk, but Prussia could sense the pain radiating off of her.

It was as though the room was populated by a pair of ghosts… Prussia could picture it clearly… Maynard, probably buzzed, if the half-finished bottle on the desk was any indication… Howard, never pretty, never mistrusting, would have come into the light if he had asked…

Fabric was pulled, buttons torn loose… She could see one in the corner from where she was standing. If he was drunk, and she was frightened…

The offer. The rejection. The strong grip on her arms. The push. The fall. The inarticulate cry that wouldn’t have penetrated the thick walls of the range, even if the kid at the desk had been where he was supposed to be, and paying attention…

Had she reached out for him? Did it matter? This was Howard, here… Prussia’s breathing returned to normal; she wasn’t even aware that it had accelerated…

Howard didn’t look at her this time, when she put her hand on her shoulder. The girl’s voice was shaky. “…Had to be pretty strong to deliver a blow like that…”

The grip on her arm wasn’t harsh, it was warm. Prussia squeezed her arm gently. “Could have just fallen from the upper level…”

Howard titled her head up then. “That’s unlikely, though, isn’t it?”

Prussia’s hand was still gentle, but her beautiful face was drawn into a hard, hard line. “No, Howard… That’s not too unlikely, at all…”

Fin.