Artemus Moriarty waits impatiently for the interview to begin. The first thing he says to me, after taking a much-needed drag on his cigarette, is, ‘I’ve busted twelve idiots trying to kill themselves. The last one asked me what the point of living for the sake of living was. I’ve been asking myself the same question every day since.’

When asked to state his name for the interview record, he laughs.

‘It’s Are-teh-muss More-ree-art-ee. Not like that professor from that detective serial. Everyone fouls that up.’

I ask him if he knows why he’s here. He shrugs and takes another puff of the cigarette.

‘I’m guessing it has something to do with that girl,’ he spits, after a moment of contemplation. I nod, amazed that after only three days, Moira has been reduced to ‘that girl’.

I ask him politely to sit. He stares at me, scorn etched into his aging features. He drops resentfully into the chair across from mine and continues to glare at me. A cloud of blue-grey smoke begins to form around his head and I offer my ashtray to his service. He stabs at it viciously.

I read the report carefully, then turn my attention to my client. He eyes me back disdainfully, but with less animosity than he had displayed earlier. I ask him again if he knows why he is here.

‘Come on, doc, you and I both know why we’re here. I’m here because of Moira. You’re here to get paid.’ He laughs hollowly, rolling his head and muddy-brown eyes to the door. No prizes for guessing that he wants to leave. After all, this is a cop. An old cop. One of those cops who has been patrolling the same beatnik area for twenty-two years without so much as the aid of a partner. Yet now he’s sitting here. All because of her.

I offer him a mint, which he declines with a wave of his hand. Then I settle back in my armchair and open my notepad. As I switch on the recorder, Moriarty shoots a steely look at me.

‘I’ll bet you’re going to go home after this interview, talk to your partner about it and laugh about what a messed-up cop I am,’ he mutters, leaning as far back as the chair will allow. I let him continue.

‘You’re right. I am messed up. But it’s only what this god-forsaken job has done to me.’

I ask him to elaborate on what this ‘god-forsaken job’ has done to him. Moriarty laughs bitterly.

‘Is that what those fucking wankers in the top office want to know? So they can stop other wet-behind-the-ears upstarts following in my footsteps? Well they can’t. No one can. It's going to happen no matter what anyone tries to do. It’s the horrible truth. Humanity isn’t what it seems. We pretend to be this all-knowing, all-seeing race that rules the world and everything in it. In truth, we’re worse than the animals we pretend to control. The atrocities that humankind has wreaked upon this planet are beyond all that we consider human.’

I’m confused. Moriarty did not come across as a tree-hugger. Then he snorts.

‘We’re all fucking losers. We’re born to die.’

And back to square one. I don’t know how to take my new client. In one moment, he is poetic, lamenting the ill and evil events that led to the tarnishing of the human race’s reputation, in the next, he is a foul-mouthed cop. A man of many faces. He studies me, a sarcastic smile playing on the corners of his mouth. Another moment and he lets out a barking laugh.

‘I shock you. Not surprising, really. Nobody ever stops to listen to my theories. Who would? Street cops aren’t known for their amazing intelligence. Well, not the ones in my sector anyway. Maybe that super-cop on TV, you know the guy? Him and that short blonde? He makes it look so easy. We’re not all Sherlock-fucking-Holmes. Pity. A hell of a lot more crime would get busted if we were all like him. But that’s just it. Cops these days, they just jump outta the academy and hit the streets. God knows what’s goin’ through their heads. One thing’s for sure; they don’t get what they’re looking for.’

He fascinates me. There’s something ageless about the way he speaks. Then I remember why we’re here. Moriarty notices this and laughs again.

‘You haven’t seen this world. You’re interested in what I have to have. Genuinely interested. Either that or you’re one of those rare people who sees the world differently.’

I explain that he is a fascinating subject. Moriarty raises an eyebrow.

‘Like a laboratory experiment? C’mon doc, you aren’t looking at me like that. You’re interested in my story. I know you are.’

He may not be Sherlock Holmes, but he sure took notes from Watson’s archives.

Moriarty looks at me.

‘Have we chitchatted long enough? Or do you want to theorise a bit more?’ he snipes. I realise that his hypnotic prose is just that - prose. He’s trying to throw me off-track. He smiles sardonically.

‘Ah, now you’ve figured me out, doc. You know what I’m trying to do. I thought you might. You don’t look stupid. You are possibly one of the most intelligent people that I have met. Don’t let that go to your head, though, there aren’t too many intelligent people around where I live.’

I sit up straight, determined to beat this cop at his own game. I ask him why he let Moira get to him if he can read people so well. This touches a raw nerve and causes him to sit back grumpily.

‘I thought I could trust you, doc, but if you’re going to make fun of me and mock me, I’m gonna tell you to go fuck yourself and I won’t say another word,’ he growls bitterly. Stalemate. Neither of us is going to give an inch. I lean back casually. Moriarty cocks his head to one side and treats me to a half smile.

‘But then, what would be the point of our little chat then, huh? And we all know that it would be a terrible waste of time that would be. So go ahead, do your worst. Ask all the questions you want.’

This is the answer that I have been looking for. I open the draft of questions that the Police Commissioner gave me. I re-read them carefully, before giving Moriarty my full attention.

I ponder my next move. Anything personal and Moriarty will snap. Too vague and he’ll take me on a tangent that I don’t need to be on. Examining his nails, Moriarty clears his throat.

‘Have you ever known anyone like her?’ Moriarty asks softly. I survey him curiously. This is a guy who, thirteen minutes ago, would have died rather than tell me about his motives. He looks at me softly, a complete change in his disposition.

‘Moira was... special, in her own way. She didn’t deserve the hand that life dealt her. Troy used and abused her. He had no respect for her.’

I ask him if he did.

‘Of course I did. If I didn’t, I wouldn’t have done it.’

And we’re back to the reason we’re here. I need him to start talking about it or head office will have my ass. I ask him to talk about her. Moriarty closes his eyes.

‘She was who she was. For what it’s worth, she was like a protege, totally antagonistic. She was... I don’t know, like a daughter but not. Like someone else’s kid that you take home at night and…well, you know the story. Moira was the one person who treated me like I was there. It’s just a pity that she never had the chance to get out of that slump she lived in.’

I ask him if he blamed himself. He laughs.

‘Do you blame yourself if the cat opens the door and runs out? No. I blame that bastard she called a brother. That’s who I blame. If he hadn’t pimped her out, she would never have been in the god-awful mess that I found her in.’

As my client sits in silence, waiting for my next question, I glance around my office. I decorated it myself, as I recall, when I first entered my profession. The light glances through the window on Moriarty’s right, illuminating his pale face, crumpled in defeat yet strong with will. The look of a cornered wild horse that realises its impending capture. My gaze travels across various watercolour prints I have accumulated over the years, over the rosewood desk at which I am often found sitting, and back to my client.

Moriarty reclines, studying me as I observe our surroundings.

‘You have a nice place here, doc. It must have taken you some time to earn enough for this pad,’ he comments. I nod and smile politely, explaining that I have been in practice for a few years and began work for the Commissioner three years ago. He nods.

‘It explains a few things. I noticed that the more expensive items are from some years ago. You were buying in fits and spurts, generally when you had the money from clients. Then I see certain items of value were purchased in a fairly consistent period, which meant that you were consistently employed. That must have been when the Commissioner hired you.’

Christ, he’s good. Wonder why he never made detective. Moriarty laughs heartily at my bemused expression. He slaps his knee and grins like a child who has played a practical joke on a half-wit adult.

‘Oh doc, you should see your face! You think I learnt nothing from Holmes? It was simple deduction. Even you are trained in that. A person tells you a certain piece of information. From that, you can deduce certain other pieces of information about them. It shocks some, amuses others. But you weren’t thinking that, were you? You were thinking about applying that to Moira. A drug-addled whore with nothing other than barely a high school education.’

Jesus, is nothing sacred? This guy is reading my thoughts. Artemus Moriarty sighs and rubs his forehead.

‘If I had known then what I know now, I probably would’ve kept Troy under lock and key. I would never have let that bastard out of lock-up if I had known that it was all his fault. I blame him, more than I blame myself. If it’s my fault for killing her, then he put the gun in my hand.’

There, he’s said it. The thing that we both know he was here to talk about. A subtle change of atmosphere envelopes the room. He pauses, gauging my reaction. I shrug, flipping a note page over and scrutinise the following questions. My client sighs and flops back in the chair.

‘Alright, I’ve ousted it. Yeah, I killed Moira. I took my glock out of the holster, held it to her sleeping head and shot her. I’m a bad cop, death penalty, yada yada. But Moira knew it was coming. I think she knew after that first night what was coming, but it didn’t stop her. In fact, I think it made her more insistent.’

I eye him somewhat sarcastically. My quarry smiles impishly.

‘Aw, now c’mon doc, you don’t think that I encouraged her, do you? What do you take me for, a cradle-snatcher? Albeit I am forty-seven and still god-forsaken single, but I never asked the girl to keep coming back. Troy was responsible for that. I didn’t turn her away, but I never encouraged her to come back. That was up to her. When she could get away from him, she came to me.’

Understanding a girl like Moira without her standing there in front of you and only the testimony of an admitted killer to describe her mannerisms isn’t the best way to unlock the motives of a criminal. Especially a good cop gone bad. Cops are the worst; they see the world differently to other people, far more calculating, far more person-savvy. Going head-to-head with one of the best isn’t going to be easy. Then again I never expected it to be. He’s being deliberately vague. I need to clear this up. Now.

I sit up straight. I look him dead in the eye. Then, without being too impersonal, I ask him the question I’ve been dying to ask since he wandered into my tiny, stuffy office on this sunny, autumn afternoon. I ask him to tell me the events leading up to Moira’s death. He gives me a look; that of a challenge, that I dare to ask how he wound up talking to a shrink.

‘Are you sure you wanna know, doc? You can leave the room and you won’t have to hear it. I can talk into the tape and you won’t have to know what happened. You won’t have to hear what led to dear, sweet, sixteen-year-old Moira’s sudden and horrific death. You can go back to your family, your mind clear of burning questions and thoughts of darkness. You can save yourself the heartache that I wreaked upon my own life. I’m offering you that chance. The chance that I and, indeed Moira, never got. Get out now and you can save yourself from me.’

He waits for my reaction as he lights another cigarette. Puffing it in a contemplative manner, he watches my face. I deliberately keep it emotion free. Breathing out smoke like an old, bad-tempered dragon, he motions to the door. I shake my head. Artemus Moriarty shrugs.

‘That’s your decision. I want to make that clear. You choose to stay. The same as Moira, I may add. I’m not encouraging your being here, in fact I warned you against it. Yet you chose to stay. Therefore, anything that results from this is not my fault. It is yours.’

He intrigues me. Even if I had wanted to leave, I couldn’t. Apart from the Commissioner having my guts for garters, I want, need, to hear this story. I need to know what makes the man tick. What made the man explode. I settle back and wait for him to continue. Artemus takes another puff and looks at the smoke in his hand as he begins the story.

‘What you need to understand, before we go on, is this: we are all like cigarettes. At birth, we are lit and we burn for a short period of time. To us, it may seem like forever. To the earth, it’s a mere flash in the pan. Like the cigarette, we are used by others, for the good, for the bad. Then at the end, we are stabbed out and forgotten. Unless we are the first or the last to someone. Like most cigarettes, some of us are meant to last longer than others. Moira, even if I hadn’t shot her, wouldn’t have lasted long anyway. I simply stabbed her out before she burned to the butt.’

Moriarty looks at me. The muddy brown eyes he possesses appear to hold a whisper of a memory, something that he had seen long ago. He casts his eyes to the floor and breathes out slowly.

‘Once you know that doc, you’ll understand all that follows. The story is not a short one, so I can guarantee that we will be back here, bantering words again until I can find where I left off. So I’ll begin now. I see that half our time has gone already and I can’t have you going back to the Police Commissioner with an empty plate, now can I? So here it is, the story of Artemus Moriarty and his life and crimes. It is also the story of a girl named Moira who, by unfortunate circumstances, became a part of the crimes. Note also that while she was indeed a crime, she was his life. If this were to be only about her, then I could talk forever. But it is not, so therefore her part will only be small. After all, we’re here to talk about me. Don’t think I’m self-centred, that’s not it at all. It’s just a fact. So here I go...’

.1.

As a child, Artemus Moriarty was born into a world where everything was as it should be. His father worked, his mother cooked and his sister, Helena, was engaged to the butcher’s son. Perfect suburbia. But, as with many fifties family, this was just the face that the outside world saw. Upon returning from the steelworks he worked at, if dinner wasn’t on the table, his father would hit his mother. His mother, to cope with the constant battering, turned to alcohol and strange men for comfort, finding it in neither. Helena, upon finding the first guy to come along with a decent job, had left the family home behind, leaving young Artemus to live with his father’s torments and his mother’s constant crying and suicide attempts.

Moriarty attended the local public school, gaining good grades in each of his classes. The perfect student, he was class president and a member of his school’s chess club until his senior year. Throughout high school, he wasn’t the most popular student, but was among the more studious. He gained subject awards for science and mathematics and many expected him to go on to university. Instead, Artemus applied for the Police Academy, much to the surprise of his superiors.

Whispers ran rampant through the small town. Why would he join the police? Artemus has a fine young head on his shoulders, he could change the world! What could the Police offer such a fine young man that university couldn’t? Those were questions that only Moriarty could explain.

One night, after his father had been out on a drunken rampage, there was a swift, sharp knock at the door. The eleven-year old Moriarty opened the door to find his father hung across the shoulders of a tall, dark man in a blue suit. The man entered the house silently and dumped his unconscious father on the brown sofa. Kneeling next to the young Moriarty, the man explained that he was a police officer and that he had brought his father home after he was found passed out near a strip club. Artemus, at the tender age of eleven, didn’t quite understand what a ‘strip club’ was, but assumed that it was where people who belonged to it went to trade strips. The tall officer had left the house that night, leaving young Moriarty to take care of his father. That night, he decided that anyone who was powerful enough to best his father, the man who beat his mother and spent nearly every waking hour yelling at his son, was a person worth being. If that meant rejecting a university degree and becoming a Police Officer, then God help him, that’s what he would be – a police officer. A cop. So that he would never be powerless again.

Throughout his training at the academy, that night when he was eleven stuck in Moriarty’s memory. It drove his will and existence, forged his desire to be the best cop on the force. When he graduated, the other officers expected him to go straight into one of the top beats in the area. Instead he was transferred to a beatnik area that was rife with drug dealers and prostitutes. Moriarty, in all his youth and ignorance, set about making the neighbourhood a better place to live. No one, he had thought, deserves the upbringing that I had.

Moriarty’s intentions were well-meaning, but he never had the chance to fulfil them. At the end of his first week patrolling the streets, a local drug gang jumped him in a particularly bad area of the neighbourhood. Beaten, limbs broken, the gang members stole his firearm and all the money he had on him. As the members fled, the leader lifted Moriarty’s head by his hair and looked into his eyes. Moriarty fought to see through the blood dripped from a gash in his forehead.

‘This ain’t your turf, cop. Around here, we’re the law. Welcome to the neighbourhood,’ the leader had sneered, before dropping Artemus against the pavement, making him groan in pain. The leader disappeared, never to be seen again. Moriarty had crawled to the squad car and radioed for help. Thirty minutes later, he was passed out in the local ER.

From that day on, Artemus Moriarty had hardened himself against the attacks and abuse that he suffered from the local riff-raff. He took up weight-training for a number of months, bulking up to such an extent that a rumour had run around the severely under-staffed station that he had been taking steroids that he had confiscated from terrified drug-addled athletes. He quickly established more inside contacts in the local drug rings than any other officer in the district. If you wanted the inside word on what deals were going down, you asked Artemus Moriarty. He soon became the most useful cop on the beat.

But despite the work he did, despite the outstanding references that his commanding officers threatened to give him, Artemus Moriarty never rose beyond the rank of Sergeant. He was content, or seemingly so, to work the same beat for the rest of his life, fame and fortune by-passed the promising young police officer, the one that everyone said talent had been wasted on.

It was these words he had dwelled on for the last twenty-two years, more than anything else. These words, that talent had been wasted on him, when he had spent every waking moment protecting the streets they walked, even to the extent that his own personal life had fizzled and eventually extinguished. Single at forty-seven and things weren’t looking too good. Story of his life, really. So here he was, leaning out of the window of his beat-up squad car, trying not to turn it into gas chamber before heading back to the station. He hadn’t had a new car in the last ten years. He was still driving the early eighties car that had been presented to the station by the mayor as a gesture of goodwill to the cops of the local area. The mayor had not thought about replacing the car more than ten years on.

His muddy-brown eyes cast a glare across the empty, grey street in front of him. He knew they were there. He couldn’t see them, but they were there. Hiding in every alley, waiting for him to either get out of his car and come to them, or to just drive away. Moriarty sucked on his cigarette with contempt. If he was just going to drive away, then he was no better than the thugs who ran City Hall. If he just drove away, he’d be turning his back on the ruffians that ran the dangerous operations around here. If he just drove away, then the last twenty-two years had gone to hell. Moriarty wasn’t going to take that. He couldn’t.

He got out of the squad car; unfolding his large, bulky frame and quashing the butt of his cigarette under a highly polished leather shoe. Through the blinding, cold light that the sun cast across the littered street, Moriarty raised a hand to shield his eyes and searched for his quarry. He located his target; a crouched figure, apparently seeking shelter from the harsh light of day. Artemus moved swiftly across the street, his overcoat flapping around his legs. As he approached, the figure looked up. A young adolescent male, with red and purple circles under his eyes and track marks adorning his arms, stared blankly up at the cop.

‘Whazzup?’ he burbled at the officer, holding out a veined hand in an attempt at a handshake. Moriarty’s eyes narrowed, but he returned the favour, shaking the addict’s hand quickly before letting it drop. The boy dropped his gaze.

‘So whaddya wanna know?’ he slurred, running a finger under his raw nostrils. Artemus sniffed. This guy was a coker, one of those druggies that snorted every day. But this druggie happened to be in a special circumstance. By sheer luck, the drug-addled brat had forged himself a solid place in two rival gangs in the neighbourhood. Luckily for Moriarty, the addict had a loose tongue when he was under. Luckily again, Artemus was the only one he’d open up to.

‘The usual,’ Moriarty spat, scanning the street to see if he had been followed. It wasn’t unusual for new recruits to tail him to where he met his informants. They quickly learnt the hard way, the same way that Moriarty had. Most times he was within range to stop them getting too beaten up. Sometimes he let the gangs destroy the spirit that burned, flickered and died inside the upstarts.

When he was satisfied that the recent addition to the cop squad at home base hadn’t followed him out, Artemus returned his glare to the addicted youth huddled at his feet.

‘I’m waiting,’ Artemus growled softly. ‘I don’t have all day. I hope you aren’t going back on our deal. You tell me what you know and I keep you out of the local lock-up.’

The youth ran his finger quickly under his nose again and sniffed. He kept his eyes trained on the empty, open street, punctuated only by the squad car. Moriarty began to lock his left hand around the glock in his holster and the other hand around the handcuffs in his pocket. He had enough evidence to give the kid a sheet longer than his right leg. Taking him in now wouldn’t be a problem. True, he’d lose a good contact, but Moriarty was prepared to make that sacrifice.

‘Troy Donovan.’

Moriarty moved his hand away from the glock at his waist. He stared at the young man, who had begun to twitch.

‘Troy who? I’ve never heard of Troy Donovan. That’s saying something. Tell me about him.’

‘Troy... Troy... oh yeah, Troy. Yeah, he’s a newie. Just moved here. From what I heard his parents have been dragging him in and outta rehab all fucking year. Can’t keep him clean longer than a month. He’s a dealer, makes his own. It’s not bad shit, but the boys aren’t likin’ his cuttin’ in on their turf, if ya know what I mean. They’re getting twitchy. Could spark a turf war. Ya never know. Donovan ain’t got a gang, he’s solo. But I’ve heard talk that when he gets in a squeeze, he pimps out his sister to get him outta trouble. Again, all this is hearsay, but word is she’s a hot lil’ number.’

‘How old is she?’ Moriarty asked softly, feeling a surge of hatred for this Donovan guy. Not only was he a dealer, the lowest form of scum, but he pimped out his family. Not just anyone in his family either – his sister. Moriarty sucked in a slow breath. He lifted his gaze to the street, not happy at the thought of another youth heading down the drug road. The youth remained silent.

‘I’m not going to ask you again. You know what I can do to you,’ the old cop murmured, rattling the handcuffs in his pocket. The adolescent shivered and rubbed his arms.

‘You ain’t gonna like it, man,’ he muttered, rocked back and forth on his feet. Moriarty had had enough of the kid. He hauled him to his feet and forced the kid to face him.

‘I asked you a question you son of a bitch!’ Artemus roared. The boy winced. ‘How old is the girl?’ Artemus demanded again.

‘Okay, okay! She’s... well... apparently, I mean, I don’t know for sure, but... I’ve heard she’s... sixteen,’ the kid admitted. Moriarty dropped him to the ground, his mind spinning. Sixteen. Barely old enough to leave school. Nowhere near old enough to be having sex with strangers to get her brother out of trouble. Donovan better not give him the chance to throw him in lock-up, or he’d find himself there for a very, very long time. Shit. Moriarty looked down at his informant, who was looking up at him nervously.

‘Alright. You can go. Crawl back into that hole you came from,’ Artemus snapped. The kid made to stand up and walk away, but hesitated. He shifted his weight from foot to foot, shooting shifty looks at Moriarty. Artemus began walking back to the squad car, when the kid cleared his throat. Moriarty stopped in his tracks. Turning his head slightly to the right, staring at the tarmac.

‘You got something to say, kid?’ he asked dangerously. The boy jiggled nervously.

‘I just thought... y’know, in return for my services that maybe you would...’ he trailed off, glancing around the empty street. Moriarty shrugged. They both knew that all Artemus had to do was turn around and take one well-aimed shot at his head and they’d both be clear. They also knew that it would start a turf war that would tear the neighbourhood apart. Moriarty turned, reaching into his pocket. The druggie recoiled slightly.

‘I’m sorry sir, I didn’t...’ he began as Moriarty strode purposely back towards him. He thrust a fifty-dollar bill into his hand.

‘There. Go shoot up so I can go back to my happy, peaceful life where I don’t care about you,’ he hissed, spinning around and stalking back to the car. The addict didn’t have to think about it. He melted into the shadows and disappeared immediately. Kids in the area knew that it was a seriously bad idea to tackle Artemus Moriarty, or ‘Old Man Moriarty’ as he was known, on your own. You needed at least three, heavily armed and seriously heavy, to even stand a chance. Moriarty’s informant thought about this as he fled, wishing Troy Donovan the best of luck. He hadn’t got the faintest idea who he was up against.

Moriarty climbed back into the squad car. He didn’t need to check that the kid had gone. He knew that even before his ass hit the seat, the kid would be running back to his bosses with the dirt he had dredged up from the scummy underworld that he and his fellow addicts inhabited. He slammed the door shut after he climbed into the musty smelling car and took a moment to take in his surroundings.

Light glanced through the dusty windows and off the torn leather passenger seat, which bore the marks of the many young protégés that Moriarty had been forced to take on and call ‘partner’. The last had been quite a few years ago and the seat still bore the coffee stain from when Moriarty had slammed on the brakes and locked the doors after a deranged gang member had attacked the moving car with a crow bar. That kid hadn’t lasted more than a week before being transferred to another precinct.

There was also a small pink stain from the kid who wouldn’t stop chewing gum. He must have thought it made him cool, but he looked like an over-grown deer. That stain had made its mark after the cock-sure rookie had got out of the car, leaving his gum attached to the dash. Three minutes later, he had been caught in the crossfire of a drive-by shooting. He had transferred the following week.

Moriarty gave a chuckle at the thought of his former partners. No one had the guts to stick with him for long. No one. Every time Head Office announced that Moriarty was getting a new partner, knowing looks would shoot around the precinct and the unofficial bookies would start taking bets as to how long this one would last. It was amusing to see the reaction, but it became a little monotonous after the fifteenth snot-nosed kid to come through the ranks.

Moriarty turned the key in the ignition and waited for the engine to warm up. He was alone. He knew he shouldn’t be, but it was too late. Life had dealt him two cards and he had chosen the solitary lifestyle. It had been his choice. Sure, he could have gone to university, studied science with his high school pals. He had even read in the newspaper that one of them was up for the Nobel Prize for science. That could have been him. He could have been the one getting international fame and recognition. But those who asked the questions why he hadn’t chosen that track were long gone; his father, who had lived longer than his mother out of sheer spite, had died a few years previous. Moriarty had let his sister Helena arrange the funeral. He didn’t even show up. What was the point? Artemus has asked himself. He and the old man weren’t on the best of terms; his father clearly disgusted that Artemus had chosen to become a cop instead of a rocket scientist. Artemus cringed slightly as he remembered his father’s words on graduation night...

You what? You want to be a cop?

Police officer, Dad. I thought you’d be proud of me.

You stupid kid! You think that I’d be proud that a kid with your brains is gonna waste it on a lifetime of rounding up druggies and drinkers? Son, you have so much potential! Why don’t you just forget this and apply for that university science scholarship your teacher was telling me about...

But Dad, I want to be a cop! I’m not going to university!

You bloody well are! No kid of mine is going to throw their life down the drain chasing some silly dream like being a cop!

I don’t care what you think, Dad! I’m not going to uni!

Then get the hell out of my house, boy! No son of mine is going to be bloody copper!

And so Moriarty had. He’d gathered up his small collection of possessions, thrown them in the back of his car and driven away from the family home. Luckily for him, he managed to find a place to stay at his best friend’s place and in the morning he’d found a place to live.

But the crunch had come a few years into his work at the precinct, when he was breaking in the then-new squad car. He and his new partner, a kid named Jacob Brand, had been called out to a disturbance at a nursing home at the far end of the city. To Moriarty’s shame and disappointment when they arrived, they found his father, naked and drunk, parading in front of the home with a half-drunk bottle of wine in his hand.

Brand didn’t know who the naked drunk was, all he could see was an old man who had lost his mind. Moriarty saw himself in twenty years. He began to shake as Brand bolted forward and knocked his father to the ground, cuffing him as the man let out an offensive string of curses that caused Artemus to turn away. But it was too late, Moriarty senior had noticed his son.

‘So it’s you. They told me that you had got what you wanted. Not that I cared. So you’re going to turn your back on your old man again, are you?’ his father had sneered. The young Moriarty had turned back to his father and looked him in the eye.

‘At least I’m not a disgrace to my family. At least I never hit my wife, drove my daughter away and threw my son out of the house,’ he had replied curtly. The old man had laughed bitterly and spat on the ground.

‘At least I had a family. Y’know, I wouldn’t be surprised if you were gay, you little bastard,’ he had sniped. Brand had dragged him away then, leaving Moriarty shell-shocked and stunned on the side-walk. Brand had to drive the car back to the station. Out of all the partners that Artemus had ever had, Jacob Brand had stuck with him the longest. He had also been Moriarty’s favourite. Brand had been a good man for his age, strong and willing to learn, not like the upstarts that had walked in thinking they ran the god-damn place. Poor Brand.

Moriarty threw the car into first and began the drive back to the precinct. Jacob had been a good man. What happened to him shouldn’t have happened. More importantly, it shouldn’t have happened to Moriarty’s partner. Jacob had gone out alone to speak to an informant that Artemus didn’t know. Anyone at the precinct could tell you that if Artemus Moriarty didn’t know them, they weren’t a) good people or b) safe to be around. Or c) All of the above. Moriarty had been the one forced to identify the remains of Brand, after he had driven into the middle of a shooting between the rival gangs. He hadn’t stood a chance.

Cannons had ripped through the doors of the car, tearing through Brand’s body. He had been a corpse before he had had the chance to scream. When he hadn’t come back to the station, Artemus had gone out looking for his partner. He’d found what was left of the car, as well as the charred remains of what had been his partner. The only man he would ever consider his partner. Then he’d had the terrible job of going back and telling Brand’s family what had become of him. The Brands had moved out of town three days later.

Moriarty pulled up at a set of traffic lights and watched the stream of traffic pass by, tapping his steering wheel. He hadn’t thought about Brand since the funeral, except perhaps on a dark night when he would stand at his window and watch the dark shapes of shift-workers vehicles pulling into and leaving the houses that they owned. Brand was a memory he would have preferred not to have, but a standard that he refused to give up. The traffic cleared and the lights changed, allowing Moriarty to roar across the intersection, precinct-bound.

Which was why no officer had been able to stick with Moriarty for longer than a week or two. Having a standard as high as Brand had severely lessened his tolerance. There weren’t many at the station left who had known him, but the few who were rarely spoke about him. If they did, they would firstly check to see if Moriarty was not around. No-one dared mention Brand in his presence. Not that he would fly off the handle if they did, but they weren’t game enough to take that chance. Therefore every rookie partnered with Moriarty was denied the knowledge of Jacob Brand and subsequently never knew what was in store for them. Some believed that Moriarty would only be happy once one of the rookies had gone the same way as Brand. So that someone else would understand the bitterness he held for the drug-crazed drop-outs that had been responsible for his partner’s death.

Moriarty sneered at the thought as he drew near to the station. Sure, that’s the way he had thought for many years. Brand was one of the few people who had ever understood him. But he hadn’t thought that way for a long time. His standards had dropped significantly, but as yet no-one had even come close to what he had expected of an officer.

Turning into the parking lot, Artemus Moriarty parked the car and turned the engine off. He sat back in the driver’s seat and thought about what was going to happen in the near future. Not the ‘years down the track’ future, just the ‘next hour or four’ future. He saw it, clearly mapped out; he’d go in there, file his usual reports and drop them off at his CO’s office, drive home and watch the same shows he watched week in, week out. Wonder if it was too late to go to uni. Maybe his old man was right.

He climbed out of the car, painfully aware of the sharp twitch that the curtains of the station were subjected to. Christ, he hated being a bloody oddity. He wasn’t a museum exhibit. Locking the doors, he stalked silently into the retro-decorated police station. No-one bothered to ask him where he had been and only the rookies dared to look up.

‘Moriarty! In here,’ came a sharp voice. Moriarty stopped and turned. Kevin Urquhart, the commanding officer of the tiny precinct, stuck his balding head out of his office.

‘Now, Moriarty,’ he called, before disappearing back into his annex. Moriarty groaned and hauled himself into the Captain’s presence. The chief officer of the station held contempt for Moriarty, assuming that since he had not been appointed in Urquhart’s place, that he was of no value.

‘What have you got for me?’ Kevin shot at him as he entered the office. Artemus reigned in his temper.

‘New dealer in town. Troy Donovan. Has a sister, no name on her. My sources tell me that its mainly him, but if in a tight corner he’ll use his sister to get out.’

Urquhart drummed his fingers on his desk, peering sharply up at Artemus with beady, black eyes.

‘So what’s your plan of action?’ Urquhart asked. Moriarty shrugged indifferently.

‘None, sir. I have no hard evidence that he has done anything wrong as yet, so I can’t bring him in for questioning. All I have is hearsay from a source that is questionable.’

‘No reasonable grounds for a search, at least, Moriarty?’ Kevin taunted. Moriarty’s nostrils flared. Urquhart took him for granted, considered him disposable. Regardless of his track record, the senior officer thought him a lowly civil servant. He tensed slightly.

‘I’ll put out feelers, make a few calls, sir. Other than that, I can’t promise that we’ll have reasonable grounds to search Donovan’s place,’ Artemus replied. The captain rose from his seat and strode towards the officer. Moriarty rolled his shoulders back and drew himself up to his full height as Urquhart drew nearer. Urquhart; a small, dumpy sort of man who resembled more a baked doughnut than an officer, faced Artemus with scorn as his only expression on his face.

‘I expected better of you, Moriarty. Brand would be disappointed in his old partner if he knew that you were slacking,’ Urquhart sneered. Moriarty’s face whitened. Urquhart was the only person who ever used Brand’s name in vain around him. To suggest that he, Artemus Moriarty, was not loyal to his partner’s memory, was unfathomable. Yet Urquhart knew this would get to Artemus. The tall officer looked down at his captain and forced a smile.

‘Yes... sir. I’ll try harder. I’ll find a way to bring Donovan in,’ he said, grinding his teeth. Urquhart smiled snidely, revealing sharp, even white teeth.

‘Good. You are free to leave,’ he said pompously, returning to his wooden desk and began tapping at the computer. Moriarty turned to leave.

‘Artemus,’ Urquhart said, without looking up from the screen. Moriarty stopped in his tracks.

‘Yes sir?’

‘Don’t make me have this conversation again. I want to see progress. The boys on the floor respect you. Make sure you deserve it.’

Moriarty left the office, a bitter taste in his mouth. Any respect he had from those rookies was gained from being shot at, knifed at, beaten up, beating up and other random acts of violence attempted on his person, not sitting behind a rosewood desk like that corpulent bastard. But it was the mention of Brand that had forced him to observe sheer will not to knock the guy flying across the well-decorated room. Brand was a better man than that sod could ever hope to be.

He reached his desk; cluttered with paperwork and various half-drunk cups of coffee. Clearing a space amidst the junk, he reached for a report to fill in his daily findings. As he scrawled across the form, Moriarty let his mind wander to his informant’s information; Donovan ain’t got a gang, he’s solo. But I’ve heard talk that when he gets in a squeeze, he pimps out his sister to get him outta trouble...

Moriarty sniffed and punctuated his thought with a swift stab at the half-completed daily report. What kind of sad-ass bastard pimps out his own sister to get out of trouble? Is he that cowardly? Is he not a man? Hell, if he can hack it as a dealer, why the hell can’t he hack the trouble it causes? Artemus thought as he signed his name at the bottom of the sheet. He dropped in the CO’s inbox and headed out the door.

The drive home was surprisingly short, the light of day dying quickly as he pulled up into his driveway and regarded the peeling paintwork of his split-level house. He really had to get around to re-painting some weekend.

Once inside, Moriarty settled down to an average night in front of the television. Except for the sound of the box, the house was silent; Moriarty had never married nor had any children of his own. Many of his colleagues had suspected the same thing as his father; that he was, in fact, gay. Artemus knew that this wasn’t true, but he had never troubled himself to correct them. He really didn’t care what they thought about him. It wasn’t his problem, it was theirs. Let them infer what they would, he knew the truth. If he was happy in his job, then there wasn’t a problem.

But Moriarty, in all his callousness, knew that these were just cheap excuses for what he was lacking in his life. His ambition to be the better cop had blinded him to what else lay outside his door. He had religiously declined offers to go and have a beer at the pub, spending night after night at the station, filing reports and making useful contacts. He was now a respected cop, but he had no social life and no family. Not even his sister visited anymore, just a card at Christmas.

Artemus sighed and gazed out of his window and into the darkness outside. Maybe his father had been right all those years ago. Maybe he had been better off going on to university and studying Mathematics or Science. Maybe he would have been better off, saving the world rather than saving his backyard from wasps. But he couldn’t change what he had done. He was a cop, a streetcop and there was nothing he could do about it. He hated admitting it, but his old man had been right. He was just a cop. Not even a detective, which had really appealed to him when he had joined the forced. He had even talked to Brand about it. They had all the plans; Moriarty and Brand, master detectives. Then Brand had died and everything had changed. Moriarty had abandoned his dream of being a detective and settled into a sad routine.

Angrily, Moriarty threw his microwaved-tv-meal across the room. The tray hit the pale peach wall with a loud crash, as luke-warm tinned spaghetti began to ooze down the wall. He buried his head in his hands. He’d suffered bouts of depression after Brand’s death, but he hadn’t had one in nearly three months. He had steered away from prescription medication in case it affected his performance at work. No-one had suspected a thing. Lifting his head, Moriarty looked at himself in the full-length mirror that stood in his hall. The person who looked back at him wasn’t the person he had expected to be at his age. Artemus sighed and rubbed his forehead. He was looking at the rest of his life and he didn’t like what he was seeing. He was alone, all alone, but for the life of him, Moriarty couldn’t see how he was going to change it.

.2.

I ask my client the following day, in our follow-up session, if he thought that these feelings of depression were due to his partner’s death, or his lack of fulfilled ambition. He shrugs.

‘Brand’s death hit me hard. Maybe even I didn’t realise how hard it had hit me until around that time,’ he responds, lighting up a cigarette. I ask him if Jacob Brand had had such an impact on his life, why didn’t he mention it earlier? Moriarty shrugs and puffs ponderously.

‘It wasn’t strictly relevant. I’m here because of what happened with Moira. You asked me to tell you about the events leading up to her death. I’m doing just that. It started from when I heard about Troy moving into the neighbourhood, when I heard about the horrible fact that he would pimp out his own sister to get out of trouble. I began to think about Brand because he was the closest thing to family that I had. Like I explained, my old man wasn’t much of a father, my mother was already dead and my sister didn’t bother with me anymore. Not that she’s going to change her mind now.’

I think I’m actually feeling sorry for this murderer. Maybe life dealt a rough hand, but does he think that constitutes as his right to take someone else’s? I watch him closely as he stares idly out of the window, lounging comfortably in the armchair, exhaling smoke in spurts like a round wood stove. He notices my staring and fires a sarcastic grin in my direction.

‘I’m enjoying our time together, doc,’ he says, returning his gaze out of the window. I am silent for a moment, unsure of how to proceed from here. Yesterday he hated my guts. Today he’s enjoying my company. I need to go carefully from here. Artemus looks at me as if he can see right through me, though I try to keep my expression blank.

‘Your eyes give you away, doc,’ he mutters. Shit. So that’s he’s doing it. So much for the blank expression that I worked so damn hard at.

‘You don’t trust me at all, do you? I don’t even warrant the gift of a small piece of trust that I have a reasonable explanation for my actions, despite the fact that I have confided my personal history in you. It is not me that is untrustworthy. I have proven myself. It is you,’ Moriarty sneers at me. I quickly reassure him that I do trust him, as much as can be expected. He gives me a barking laugh, rolling his eyes at me.

‘Hell, doc, you are jumpy, aren’t you? But then again, I see it from your point of view. You need to establish a semi-solid relationship with me, or I won’t tell you a damn thing. Which doesn’t bode well for the bastards at head office and your pay check. I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have been such a bastard to you. But at least try to bear with me. This isn’t easy for me, y’know.’

I try to bear with him. I really do. But the damn Commissioner has never given me a murderer as a client before. Usually I’m playing counsellor to cops who have lost their partners in the line of duty, not determining if they’re mentally responsible for shooting a sixteen year old. He gauges my reaction.

‘Doc, I’m gonna be frank with ya. You’re a good person, I know that. Compared to the other self-obsessed shrinks they’ve tried to send me to, you actually listen and respond. That makes you a good shrink. So I’m asking you to continue that for a couple more sessions so I can get this all out and off my chest. I’ve already told you more than I’ve told anyone else. When I’m finished, you can make your psycho-babble evaluations.’

I sit silently for a moment, reading the notes I had made the previous session. I have a feeling that we’ve only scratched the tip of the iceberg and we haven’t even got anywhere near the subject of Moira. Which is, after all, why we are here in the first place. This is definitely going to take some time. I nod at him, encouraging him to continue with his story so that I can at least tell the Commissioner that he’s opening up to me. He stretches, leans back and closes his eyes.

‘Now where was I yesterday? Oh yeah, that’s right...’

* * *

The following day, Artemus woke up to the sound of rain hammering on his tin roof, the sound ricocheting through his head like the sound of gunfire. Groaning, he rolled over onto his stomach, tugging his yellowed pillow over his head to block out the noise. He hated Tuesdays. He blinked blearily at his patiently beeping alarm clock and hammered it with his left paw. He struggled upright and rolled his shoulders, easing out the tension of sleep that had crept into his muscles overnight.

He got and flicked the television on, rummaging in his cupboard for a bowl and the cereal box. Dumping himself into the armchair, he settled down to watch the morning news. More bad reports from across the globe. Moriarty flicked across to the cartoons, shaking his head sadly. Humans were primarily concerned with two things; the first was being better than one another, the second was killing each other. He remembered reading somewhere that humans were the only creatures on God’s good earth that killed each other purposely, rather than in battle for mates or territory. Well, he sniggered quietly, there was still some of that going on anyway.

After consuming the contents of the bowl and licking the dregs of milk away, Moriarty switched the television off and dressed for work. Half an hour later, he was backing out of his driveway in his freshly-pressed uniform and beaten-up Holden and on his way to work.

The traffic was unusually clear that morning, so Artemus made good time to the station. When he arrived at the precinct, Moriarty wasn’t prepared for what was waiting for him. Urquhart was sitting on a revolving chair in the middle of the squad room, playing idly with a Nerf ball. He looked up as Moriarty entered the room, surprised to see his senior officer already there. Urquhart grinned mischievously at Artemus as he strode in.

‘Look who’s here, it’s the prodigal cop!’ Urquhart laughed as Artemus narrowed his eyes.

‘What do you want, Urquhart?’ Moriarty muttered. The captain stood up and approached the tall officer, barely making it to his shoulders.

‘There’s a friend of yours waiting for you in lock-up. I believe he’s an informant of yours,’ Urquhart sneered, brushing roughly past him and heading back to his office. Moriarty let out a slow, steady breath to stall his temper and left the squad room in search of his ‘informant’.

As far as spacial planning went, the station wasn’t well-built. You entered the building from the side; the front of the building dedicated to windows so that the officers working inside had a little light during the day. You passed the reception through a slated wooden door into the musty squad room, cluttered with desks and two broken photocopiers. Standing at the door, on the right wall was a glass door that led to Urquhart’s office. On the far left wall was another wooden door that led to the local lock-up, a place frequented by many of the locals. The place was like an abandoned veterinary clinic.

The door directed your path into a concrete-block passage, at the end sat a wooden desk where the guard at the time would fill out the booking reports. On the immediate right of the desk (assuming you were facing it) were the cells. There were only two and on a Saturday night, they got pretty full. The station had campaigned for better funding to build two more cells, but Urquhart’s request fell through, as he thought the money would be better spent on the local school, which had about five regular students out of an enrolled total of about six or seven hundred.

It was in these cells that Artemus Moriarty found the kid that he had spoken to the previous day, shivering and shaking at the base of the door. He looked up at the cop and his eyes widened. He leapt up and began rattling the bars of the door.

‘Dude! You gotta let me out! I came here last night looking for you but that psychopath out there threw me inside for being under the influence! Like he’d know what that looks like, that fat bastard only comes out to ride the police float during the Christmas parade!’

Moriarty held up a long-fingered hand. The kid fell silent as Artemus dug in his pockets for his keychain, took it out and unlocked the door. The adolescent stumbled out, blinking profusely as Moriarty helped him into the guard’s chair. He knelt beside the boy as the youth checked himself for any bumps and bruises.

‘Why did you come looking for me?’ Artemus asked quietly. The kid turned his wide eyes to Moriarty.

‘You wanted to know about Donovan. I’ve got some more dirt on him,’ he murmured. Moriarty frowned pensively. Was this worth getting throw into lock-up overnight? Artemus thought to himself, but waved a hand to get the boy to continue. The youth swallowed, looked around nervously and bent close to Moriarty’s ear.

‘I might be wrong about Donovan. Apparently he’s got mates from out of town who are planning a trip here. Word is that he’s on the run from the cops in his old kick. Anyway, as far as I’m concerned, my own sources tell me that there’s a deal going down with Donovan and his mates tonight.’

‘Do you know where? I need times and places, kid.’

‘Yeah, sure. Nine thirty outside McMahon’s, you know, that old night club over on Chester. Apparently, he’s keen to make an impression on the gangs around here. Sent out a missionary to the leaders. Told ‘em that he wasn’t interested in cutting turf, that he was interested in doing business with them, not the kids.’

‘But damn kids run the damn gangs!’

‘That’s the message that was sent back. No reply. So he’s in the shit if he shows up alone tonight. There are going to be some serious weaponry down there, just waiting to take him out.’

Moriarty thought about this. If planned right, this bust would put a lot of dangerous people behind bars. If not, he’d end up dead. He needed to organise back-up. He faced the kid and put another fifty into his hand.

‘Thanks kid. Here’s a piece of advice; make yourself scarce. Make your excuses then get outta town tonight. Lay low for a week. If this turns bad, at least you’ll be safe.’

The kid blinked his wide eyes at the cop, then stood up.

‘People got you all wrong, Moriarty. You’re a good guy, you care about people. A lot more than some of the sons-of-bitches that work here.’

Moriarty afforded him a half-arsed smile and a semi-shrug.

‘Don’t let it get out, kid. People’ll think I’ve gone soft or something.’

The kid didn’t hang around. He shot through faster than Road Runner. When Moriarty returned from the cells, Urquhart was livid.

‘You let him go? Why on earth would you do that?’ he roared at Artemus as he sat down at his desk, sighing tiredly. He looked up at his CO.

‘Because he needs to get out of town, that’s why. If he stays here, he’s as good as dead.’

‘So what? That’s one less drug-addled brat we have to worry about,’ the senior officer sniped. This time Moriarty snapped. He stood up so fast that items on the desk rattled precariously. He snatched at the portly officer’s shirt front and dragged him up to his face, his eyes flashing dangerously.

‘Now you listen to me, you son-of-a-bitch,’ Moriarty growled as Urquhart struggled under his iron grip, scratching pointlessly at his hands.

‘That drug-addled brat has led to more arrests than you have ever done in your entire career. He is this station’s most important informant and I’ll be fucked if I let you get him killed because it means that there is one less druggie on the streets!’

Urquhart was turning blue. Moriarty dropped him to the floor where he lay wheezing for a moment or two. He stared angrily up at Moriarty.

‘You... you.. you ever do that again Moriarty and I’ll... h-have your badge,’ Urquhart puffed venomously. Moriarty turned on his heel and left the building.

Once outside, he mentally kicked himself and leant against the wall. What the hell had he been thinking? Was he trying to get himself fired? Attempting to strangle Urquhart was every officer’s dearest dream, but none of them ever acted on it. Until now. Until Moriarty had lost control of his temper and laid into his boss. Moriarty kicked his heel against the brickwork of the station. This was not good. One more slip-up and he was out. If he hadn’t had such a good track record, he would have been out on his ear immediately. Urquhart had friends in high places, Moriarty had friends in low places. It was the way the world worked. No matter how he thought he could change it.

People began their slow and steady stream into work, drudging in bleary-eyes and yawning. Most were surprised to see Moriarty outside the station. Usually when the rookies arrived, Moriarty was buried head-first, arse-up in paperwork. Then they wouldn’t see him for the rest of the day, until he returned from the field to fill in his daily reports and bandy words with Urquhart. Therefore, finding him smoking outside the station with a thunderstorm look across his face raised many questions.

Rumour quickly spread that Moriarty had taken to Urquhart, to the horror of the senior officers and to the admiration of the rookies. Urquhart wasn’t popular with the officers, but no-one had taken to him and nearly strangled him. When Moriarty re-entered the squad room, half the rookies looked up with renewed admiration in their eyes. Artemus looked around him in horror. This wasn’t going to go down well with Urquhart. Anyone who garnered more respect than him was guaranteed a one-way ticket off the force.

He made his way back to his desk and sat down, rummaging around in his paperwork for his squad car keys. Once he located the offending items, Artemus picked up the black house phone on his desk and dialled. As the call rang through, he looked around the room. No sense in getting these rookies involved. Let them live out their lives.

‘NYPD. Lieutenant Oakleigh here.’

‘Oakleigh? It’s Moriarty from Haskin.’

‘Arty? Is that you? Mate, it’s been some time! How are things handling in Haskin?’

‘Not bad. Listen, I need a favour from you.’

‘Sure, man, you know. Anything. After all, I always said I had your job.’

‘Ha ha, man. Listen, this is what I need you to do. There’s a big deal going down outside McMahon’s on Chester. You know I ain’t got nothing but rookies here. I was wondering if you and a couple of boys were up for a little fun, say, nine tonight.’

‘Tssss, I dunno, man. Not like we ain’t got better things to do tonight.’

‘Ever heard of a kid named Troy Donovan?’

‘What? The little shit from Brooklyn? Who hasn’t?’

‘He’s here.’

‘Save me and the boys a seat at that poker table. We’ll pick you up at the precinct at eight.’

Moriarty said his goodbyes, replaced the receiver and placed his fingertips together, gazing across the room at the glass door that represented exactly what he hated about this job. Moriarty grinned to himself. No need for Urquhart to know about this just yet. He’d teach that bastard a thing or two about respect.

Later that day, as the sunlight dwindled over the town, one of the rookies stopped by Moriarty’s desk, twisting his hands nervously. Moriarty didn’t bother looking up from his report.

‘What do you want, kid?’ he asked gruffly, shuffling papers rearranging his belongings. The kid ran a hand through his sandy hair, hat in his other.

‘Um, sir? The other officers and I agree that what you did this morning, well.. that is to say that we don’t blame you, um... the thing is sir, we’re all proud of you that you stood up to Urquhart. He has no right to treat you the way he does.’

Moriarty put his pen down slowly and closed his eyes. When he opened them again, the rookie was still standing nervously before him.

‘What’s your name, kid?’ Artemus asked quietly. The new officer visibly shook.

‘Er... Probationary Constable Fielding,’ the young officer said shakily. Moriarty looked at him with pity in his eyes.

‘I’m going to give you a couple of pieces of advice, Fielding. You’re not my partner, so get the hell outta my face. Secondly, no-one advanced their career by threatening their boss, so don’t give me shit about being proud of me. There’s nothing to be proud of, kid. I attacked a senior officer and I was wrong. So go back to your desk, put your greasy nose to the paper and keep the fuck away from me. I’m not interested.’

Fielding scurried away like a rat that had it’s tail cut off. Moriarty watched as the rookie slammed into his desk, picked up his pen and began to write up his daily furiously. Allowing himself a tiny grin, Artemus turned his attention to the plans in front of him. They were the blue prints for McMahon’s, a popular nightclub on Chester Avenue.

McMahon’s had been an institute of Haskin for a very long time. Scratching his head, Moriarty realised that it had been open since he was a child. Sure, management had changed hands several times and the club itself had been renovated many times to keep it modern, but essentially, it was the same. The local hang-out for every underage punk who wanted a job in the area’s gangs. Not one of Moriarty’s favourite places. It had been McMahon’s that Brand had been heading to when the cannons had ripped through his car. Moriarty narrowed his eyes. It was time he took the bastards out.

Moriarty studied the plans. He had known Lieutenant Jones Oakleigh when he was a probationary constable at Haskin. ‘Joney O’ had proved to be a useful contact to have. Thank God Moriarty had had the sense to see where Joney was headed. The lieutenant had been promoted after five years on the force. He’d kept in touch with Joney at the NYPD, knowing that he’d probably need his help one day. After helping Oakleigh with a couple of stings, it was time to call in a favour. Busting a dealer from Brooklyn, technically under his jurisdiction, was just too good for Oakleigh to pass up.

Moriarty scanned the building blueprints, noting specific areas of cover that the operatives could use to keep out of sight of Donovan, his gang and the other drug dealers. This was it. If this came off well, Moriarty was guaranteed a chance to knock off Urquhart and the snide smile of his ugly mug. He’d get his due and finally run this station the way it was meant to be. At least he couldn’t be accused of sitting on his ass and doing nothing. Urquhart saw rookies as expendable. Moriarty saw them as annoying. The one thing that they had in common was the contempt they held for the commissioner’s office sending them useless officers to beat into shape.

There were far too few senior officers on staff to reign in the young, impish and hot-headed rookies fresh from the academy. As soon as they stepped over the threshold, they thought they were the big man on campus. Big man, because in all the time that Moriarty had been a cop, he had only seen seven women come through the ranks as officers. Those seven women had been the toughest people he had ever met. Forced to prove themselves in their male colleagues’ eyes, one had died in the attempt.

Rolling up the plans, Moriarty checked the clock. Six twenty. Another hour and forty and he’d be back with mates. Pity it was a sting operation that brought them back together for a night. Maybe they could organise a poker game while waiting for Donovan to show up. Not like he had anything better to do, anyway.

Urquhart was the last to leave, as always. He paused in the doorway to observe Moriarty at his cluttered desk, surrounded by building plans.

‘Planning a sting are we, Moriarty?’ Urquhart muttered softly. It was loud enough to get Moriarty’s attention, lifting his head to view his CO, tapping his foot angrily.

‘Sir?’ Artemus questioned, raising an eyebrow. He was sticking his over-sized nose in. There was no way in hell that Urquhart was going to get the credit this time. Badge or no badge, this was his operation.

‘A sting, Moriarty, a god-damn sting!’ Urquhart roared across the silent room, turning a deep shade of enraged purple. Moriarty narrowed his eyes.

‘I fail to see how you could get that impression, sir,’ Artemus replied quietly, emphasising his words with contempt. Urquhart was at the point of screaming.

‘A STING, JACKASS! RECEPTION TOLD ME THAT YOU PUT THROUGH A CALL TO THE NYPD! WHAT THE HELL ARE YOU PLANNING WITHOUT MY SAY-SO! YOU’RE TRYING TO STEAL MY JOB! I KNEW IT’

Moriarty took a deep breath before looking at his boss and treating him to a tired smile.

‘If you bothered to check, asshole, I called Lieutenant Oakleigh. I reckon you remember him? He’s the one who kicked your ass for the job at Major Case with the NYPD. He’s an old friend.’

‘You don’t have friends, Moriarty. You only have contacts, informants and people who owe you favours. You haven’t had a friend since Brand was blown out of town and into the next precinct.’

Artemus forced back the rage that surged in the pit of his stomach back down, causing bile to rise in his throat. He afforded the offending officer a glassy look from narrowed eyes.

‘You’re a sick guy, Urquhart. I still can’t work out how you managed to stay here so long. It must be all the ass-kissing you do around here. No-one really believes that you’re a real cop, you know. Even the rookies who are shit-scared of you think that you were just dragged out of the governor’s office because I wouldn’t take the damn job. Because... you know why? Because you’re not a cop. You aren’t chasing down dealers or dealing with burglaries. You aren’t doing jack-shit. I am. That’s why I have the respect that you’ll never get. That’s why you don’t run this place. I do.’

Urquhart’s mouth dropped open. He began opening and shutting it like a goldfish. Moriarty waited for the imminent firing that Urquhart had been gunning for all day. Instead, Urquhart turned and walked out of the room, leaving Moriarty alone with his thoughts. Artemus exhaled slowly and collapsed into his chair, rubbing his forehead. If Urquhart had wanted to fire him, he’d have fired him already. He wasn’t really the type of guy to hesitate, even if he did have an acid tongue. Some of the rookies hinted that his paranoia was the result of experimenting with confiscated illegal drugs that had been brought back to the station. Artemus snorted. He wouldn’t expect anything less from the old bastard. Supreme hypocrisy was Urquhart’s major in his masters degree of arse-kissing. Using would be the ultimate thumb-nosing at the lowly cops that worked for him. Not that he cared. Urquhart had smarted when Oakleigh had beaten him out for a spot on NYPD’s Major Case Squad. That was Urquhart’s ultimate goal; butt-kissing to the mayor of New York City. He was incredibly pissed off that that job had been wrenched away from him at the last moment. Oakleigh was therefore Moriarty’s hero.

Artemus checked the old school clock again. Seven. Geez, this was turning into an extension of a trial of his patience. By nature, he wasn’t a patient man. Far from it. Moriarty was the kind of guy to shoot first, ask questions later. Maybe it was the rookie in him fighting back against the total abomination that ran the station, maybe he was just being childish. Either way, he didn’t give a shit. No upstart was going to tell him what to do.

Eight o’clock arrived quietly and painlessly. A sharp knock at the front door was then followed by five men cramming into the cluttered squad room, a medium-built man in a dark suit leading them. Artemus grinned as the brown-haired, green-eyed man with pale skin stepped forward to shake his hand.

‘Joney, great to see you, man,’ Moriarty grated and pumped the man’s hand. Joney swept his fringe away from his eyes. His face split into a grin.

‘Arty, mate, it’s been a while. Far too long, we’re all won’drin when you’re gonna join us at Major Case,’ Joney said jovially. Moriarty laughed and shook his head.

‘No man, this is where I am. This is where I’ll stay. You know me, a real stick-in-the-mud.’

Oakleigh laughed and slapped Moriarty genially on the shoulder.

‘Fair enough, fair enough. Still, I can’t imagine that working under Urquhart could be too much fun.’

‘Damn straight. The man is a first-class, section A bastard. There was even a rumour about him using, did you hear that?’

‘Nah, but with Urquhart, you don’t take anything as a given, do you? Come on, I believe that you have some plans for us to look at.’

Moriarty nodded and led them over to his desk, unrolled the building’s blueprints. He hunched over them, pointing out areas of interest to the group, that Oakleigh introduced as Price, Keys, Brookvale and Branch.

‘Bunch of guys that just came up through the ranks,’ Oakleigh explained, to a severe look from Moriarty.

‘Oh come on, Arty. These guys are the best in their fields. They aren’t gonna give you a rough time. They are totally at your disposal. They know better than to run the famous Artemus Moriarty to ground around here. Hell, you’re practically considered GOD at MCS. There aren’t many that can’t claim to training under you.’

Moriarty stiffened then sufficed with a quick nod, before turning back to the plans. Oakleigh was right, though; most of New York’s MCS was crammed full with former Haskin personnel. A few had from out of state, but most had been under Moriarty’s jurisdiction at some point and had come off the better (or worst) for it. He pointed to the fire escape.

‘Okay, we know from previous occasions that this is where the deals usually take place as most of the leaders understand that we cover what goes on inside the club. They can’t really hide from the security cameras that were installed a few years back. Now we know from sources that there are certain areas that our personnel can hide to cover the situation. Here and here,’ Moriarty said, indicating with his forefinger to three areas surrounding the staircase. Oakleigh leant forward to peek at the paper and nodded.

‘That shouldn’t be a problem. We’re armed with tasers and net cannons. We should be able to bring them done fairly easily if we’re forced to. That’s a pretty small area for us to squish into, but that’ll mean less room for escapes. We should be right to go,’ he affirmed. Moriarty nodded and turned to the personnel that Oakleigh had brought with him.

‘This isn’t NYC, guys. This is not your beat. Whatever you might think you know about this case, you don’t. You take orders from me. If I’m not there, you take orders from Lieutenant Oakleigh here. Out of the six of us, we are the only two who have any experience with these criminals. You need to remember that.’

The four rookies looked at each other, shocked, then looked at Oakleigh. Joney nodded sternly.

‘You listen to this guy, lads. He’s the difference between you lot getting promoted when we get back or getting your head shot off at three feet by a cannon.’

Price went white and blanched. Branch, Brookvale and Keys nodded quickly, looking at Moriarty with new confidence. Artemus smiled. You had to hand it to Joney Oakleigh; he certainly had a way with words when he needed to. He rolled up the blueprints to McMahon’s and faced his crew, a stern look reinstated on his face. He looked at Oakleigh.

‘Did you bother to bring me any firepower?’ he asked slyly. Oakleigh grinned mischievously.

‘And here we were thinking that you’d be trigger-happy with your glock, mate,’ Joney sniggered. Moriarty sighed and shook his head tiredly.

‘Ever the comedian, Joney. What did you bring me?’

‘Same as us, mate. Didn’t think that just because you’re leading the damn crusade that you’d get special treatment, did you?’

Moriarty laughed heartily at that and clapped the senior officer on the back. Joney was a good guy, really, but sometimes he had to remember where he came from. His remark brought back memories of Brand’s sarcastic slapstick that Moriarty had often found annoying.

‘Man, am I glad that you’re back in town,’ Artemus said, a smile from ear to ear reaching across his face. Oakleigh grinned.

‘So am I, mate, so am I. Now let’s get to that poker game you promised me. I’ve got a score to settle with Donovan and I want to see the look on his face when a few of his old mates from Brooklyn turn up.’