Devil's Advocate

The police station was completely lifeless save for some moths -- which were fluttering around the long thin tubes of florescent light that gave the department building a ghostly, abandoned hospital feel -- and a young man; a twenty-eight year old homicide detective known by the name of James Carson. James Carson was certainly a force to be reckoned with in the department; he was two inches short of being six and a half feet tall, very fit, logical, cunning, and known for being one tough son of a bitch. His eyes were gray and emotionless -- at least until he was investigating or causing mischief -- and struck fear into the hearts of others. Carson had grown out his messy pitch black locks to just above his shoulders, tainting his professional energy and posture with childishness, teen rebellion, and familiarity. He used this to his advantage, the mess coaxing persons of interest to share information.

The small lamp on the desk where Carson toiled away eminated a soft, amber glow throughout the office, spilling through the wide, dusty blinds and interrupting the haunting light of the florescents. The walls of the office were made up of bulletproof glass windows except for the one that faced outside, which still had fierce reinforced beams to guards from attacks. That one real wall was lined with three large bookshelves, and one file cabinet in each corner that faced the middle of the room diagonally. The one wall and the roof were a deep burgundy, and the carpet was a dusty brown. The desk was in the middle of the room and had two drawers, one on either side. One, the one on the right, had back-up files, and the other one held the detective's small personal items. On top of the desk was nothing but a closed laptop, a lamp, and a half-filled in police report.

James was working on that report, his pencil switching to his left hand as his right one cramped. After about an hour more, he felt his hand cramp once more, but he powered through to finish writing.

"John Cornway threatened me by putting a gun to my head, and -- since I was bound -- could not stop him. Therefore, it came down to Stephanie Calsona and Lyam Nadine to apprehend Mr. Cornway before he could fire a bullet. If it had not been for them, Mr. Cornway would have killed more people, including me."

The details were barely a scratch on the surface of what had happened as John Cornway confessed his plans to kill Detective Carson, as well as the others, but it was enough to satisfy. James leaned back in his office chair after finishing the report, clenching his fist and relaxing it to relieve the cramping, and began thinking about the two detectives who had saved his life.

Stephanie Calsona was a forty-six year old woman with blue eyes and dirty blond hair streaked with some grey due to stress. Stephanie -- or, as she preferred, Steve -- was sort of like a mother to the younger officers, and a sister to the older ones. She was a hunter and knew how to handle a gun as well as a vicious K-9 unit.

Lyam Nadine was thirty years old, and had been in the homicide department ever since he was twenty-two. Lyam had thick, curly black hair, tan skin, and velvety brown eyes, as well as scars from the fights with suspects all across his body.

Both Lyam and Steve tried to look on the bright side of things, always laughing and joking in the break room. James chuckled softly to himself as his thoughts wandered further, digging for any memories of the two detectives. Three years ago, when James first moved to the city of Danivero, California and joined forces with Danivero P.D, Lyam, Steve, and the sheriff -- a tall forty-eight year old Native American Man named Russell Brandy -- showed her around the building and the city. Three years later, it was routine for the sheriff to assign Lyam and Steve to cases with James if they weren't already busy.

After a few minutes, James headed out, leaving the report on the sheriff's desk before locking up and going home.

At first glance, "home" was anything but sweet. It was a small old one-bedroom house with a two-car garage on the edge of the coastal city's grassy dunes and sandy shore. It was as plain on the inside as it was on the inside, the interior decorating was mostly white or cream, though it was hard to tell with it being yellowed with age. There was a TV and bed in the bedroom, and the study had a desk and a file cabinet. A few pictures were scattered on the walls of the house, all framed pictures of the other detectives in the department and of the very rare occasions where Lyam and Steve had convinced James to join them for a night at the bar. It was usually cold, but James didn't mind. He preferred the cold to the warmth of California's southern coast.

Inside the garage was two rather unattractive vehicles; a 1984 Ford Mustang SVO, and a 1995 Honda Prelude VTEC. The Mustang was a sort of dull, futuristic looking gray, and the Prelude was a plain red.

James had arrived home in the Mustang a little more than fifteen minutes after leaving the station. He drove up, parked, and hurried into his room. Exhausted, James curled up under the sheets of his small bed, quickly falling into a deep, dreamless sleep.