Rupert's Summer (solo)

8.

The photo was tacked up to the bottom corner of the announcements board, with an inglorious post-it note stuck over the little boy's face: "Found in the coffee marker hallway". It was below the advertisement for the precinct soccer tournament and to the right of the sign-up for the plain white T-shirts that were ordered once a year: "Remember the Sanctuary". The soccer was mandatory for anyone in Captain Cynthia Myer's precinct; state champs three years running, damn it, and not about to let those white collars crime chasers from the financial district beat her. The plain white T-shirts were only mandatory on principle.

Admittedly, the boy in the photograph was very hard to recognize. He was smiling, for starters. He was dressed neither in a suit nor the hideous band-shirt-and-slacks combo he would fall into during his senior year at college and never quite recover from. He stood grinning next to the man in the photograph, like he still had something to believe in.

This was how Rupert Kelley left the Central Park Precinct: with his name crossed off of the soccer tournament list, a formal letter slapped on the desk of Captain Myers in an obstinate way the bull-headed woman couldn't just ignore, and a photo that drifted, lost, out of the box that was carried down the hall. Just the one box. His things had already been moved out months ago, when he took the Camp Supervisor position. It was his mistake for trying to move back in.

It would not be long until the evidence tampering on the serial killer case was suspected, but no one would point the finger at Detective Rupert Kelley. Precinct goalie, three years running. Quiet instigator of the T-shirts; the only survivor from their precinct. A source of homemade biscuits and hot chocolate on random snowy days in the winter. By all accounts and measures, a damn good officer of the law.

The man in the photograph was a police captain, from the lower East side. He was Rupert Kelley's grandfather. The difference between him and his grandson was the difference between a damn good officer of the law and some shmuck who has just been posing all his life as a man with principles and purpose.

The photo was thrown away two weeks later, unclaimed. That smiling boy really was impossible to recognize.

6.

Rupert pulled the trap door shut behind him, and paused to take a breather on the ladder going down. There was a screwdriver in his hand and far too many beats per second happening in his chest. The church roof: even more exciting right after a storm than it was on other days. He gave himself a shake, wheezed out a cough, and finished climbing down the ladder. He limped his way back to the game room, where he handed the screwdriver over to Pastor Jeremy with an exaggerated sigh of relief. "That should do it for awhile. Until the next high wind, anyway."

"Bless you, Rupert Kelley." Pastor Jeremy intoned solemnly--and loudly--over the sound of the soccer match blaring on the old widescreen TV in the room. "What ever would the children do without their satellite television?"

"We'd wither and die, Pastor Jeremy."

"Seriously. lol."

"Did you just say 'lol'? That's just--"

"GOAL!"

"What indeed," Rupert coughed. "What else can I do?"

"There really isn't anything else for you to--"

"BAKE COOKIES!"

"Yah, yah! Could you bake more cookies? Double the chocolate chips, this time!"

Pastor Jeremy and Rupert shared a look. Then Rupert gave a cough, and a shrug. "I guess I'll bake cookies."

"What would the children do without the top of food pyramid," Pastor Jeremy loudly contemplated.

"Go on a hunger strike. Like the Dali Lama."

"Wasn't that Gandhi?"

"It might have been Buddha."

"Nah, he was chubby. He was definitely a cookie eater, too. Buddha would have totally liked Mister Kelley."

Rupert limped towards the kitchen, still wheezing a little from his trip to the roof.

4.

"I thought I told you I didn't want to hear anymore of your mutant stories. Seriously. ****." Doc Brown said. She rolled her eyes at the look on his face. "All right, all right. So a six year old hates you, and threw a rock at your dog. How does that make you feel, Rup?"

"How am I supposed to ******* feel? He's right. I didn't remember him. Hell, I still don't remember seeing him--just reading his internment papers. He's a dream manipulator. That's all the more that I can remember."

"Nix the swearing, Rupert, or I'm charging extra. Now I told you to do something last time, Rup, and I wish you'd listened to me, because I hate wasting breath repeating myself: get a job. Baking cookies for the youth group doesn't count. You're a miserable man and the world hates you. ****. I get it. Now go forth, and stop leeching off of my tax money. Did you ask at that coffee shop yet?"

"I don't want a pity job."

"No, you just want to encourage violence in six year olds. You're such a charming man, Rup, I can really see what that Raina saw in you."

"**** you, Doc."

"See you next month, Rup. ****. Maybe we can wash your mouth out with soap, next time."

2.

Rupert stood awkwardly in front of the long countertop at Insomniacs Anonymous. It was a quarter after two in the morning. Bethany Marley, owner and operator, had poured him the usual as soon as he came in: coffee, black. She pushed it towards him with one eyebrow raised. "A pity job, huh? Sure, I can give you one."

Rupert sat down, and pulled the mug closer. "Please don't call it that." A humble request.

"Rup," Bethany began, with a very simple honesty, "we both know I just fired the extra help. I don't need it. Me and Lucy have this place covered. If you want a job, though, sure; I'll give you a job. Call it what you want. You okay with that Lucy?"

"Am I okay with us giving employment to the gimpy zealot cop-drop-out with the asthma issues?" Lucy Marley was, as per usual, sitting cross-legged on the counter with her Mac Book on her lap. She didn't deem the situation worthy of looking up. "Sure. But I get to pick his uniform." She demanded, her fingers never faltering in their sharp staccato rhythm across the keys.

Rupert cast a glance over at the nineteen year old. She had left her Goth phase recently: now, she was into white dresses. Flowing white dresses. The light summery fabric cascaded over either side of the countertop. She hadn't lost the fishnet stockings yet, though; she'd just changed their color scheme to a light blue that matched her obnoxiously thick eye shadow. "Why don't you get back to telling your friends about your Dark Vampire Master, Lucy, and leave the terms of my employment to the grown-ups."

"It's a term paper, Wheezer, and I'm over that jerk. He's not cool anymore--he's as violent as you, SS Camp Overlord. The unicorn is way cuter. And he likes virgins."

Rupert swallowed quickly; it was either that, or snort boiling coffee out through his nose.

"What?" Lucy demanded, indignant. There were a lot of things about Lucy that no one believed. That she was a mutant, for one thing, or that her power was to have precognitive daydreams about dark vampire overlords and wicked women building small armies and ground-pawing unicorns. That she could write poetry that didn't lower the reader's intelligence was another. That she was a virgin was, well...

Lucy narrowed her eyes as Rupert swallowed a tasteless laugh. "I'm putting you in a bunny apron, pity case. A lavender one."