At This Time

"They don't teach you at the academy that 'no charges at this time' is a sentence with load-bearing walls.

Harding's door opened. Mitchell came out first, hat back on, face unreadable. Harding appeared behind him in the doorway, one hand on the frame, and looked at me.

"Massey. Kitchen. Two minutes."

He disappeared back into his office. The door stayed open this time, which felt deliberate — not an invitation, but the absence of exclusion. A downgrade from shut out to not yet needed. I'd take it.

Mitchell was already walking towards the kitchen. I followed.

The kitchen was a galley affair wedged between the storeroom and the back exit — a laminate bench, a microwave with a yellowed instruction sticker nobody had read since 2003, a kettle, and a sink with a slow drip that pinged against stainless steel at irregular intervals. Mitchell filled the kettle. He didn't ask if I wanted tea. He made two cups — milk, no sugar in both, the teabags left in — and set one on the bench in front of me. The mug had a faded logo: BROKEN HILL POLICE SOCIAL CLUB, 2011 CHRISTMAS PARTY. There was a chip on the rim.

I wrapped my hands around it. The warmth helped.

Mitchell leaned against the opposite bench and drank. For a while, neither of us spoke. The kitchen was small enough that we were barely a metre apart, and the silence wasn't uncomfortable so much as transitional — the pause between one thing ending and another beginning.

"You did the right thing," Mitchell said.

I waited. There was more coming. I could hear the conjunction before he said it.

"But."

"But."

He set his mug down. "Keith Barlow has lived here his entire life. His father was a grazier. His grandfather ran cattle before that. He's on the SES call-out list, he coaches under-fourteens cricket, and last year he spent three weekends rebuilding the pergola at the senior citizens' centre because council wouldn't fund it." Mitchell recited this without emphasis, the way you'd read a CV. Facts, not advocacy. "He saw a large male kangaroo causing chaos on the main street of his town, and he did what blokes like Keith have always done. He dealt with it."

"He discharged a firearm on a crowded street."

"He did."

"In front of children."

"Yep."

I put my mug down harder than I intended. Tea sloshed over the rim and pooled on the laminate. "So what happens?"

"Nothing happens."

The word sat between us. Nothing. I stared at him. Mitchell's expression hadn't shifted — that same steady, unreadable composure, the face of a man who'd had this exact conversation before and knew exactly where every sentence was going to land.

"Mitchell — "

"Jim."

"Jim." The name felt strange in my mouth. Too personal for what I was about to say. "A man walked into a crowd with a loaded rifle, put it against an animal's head, and pulled the trigger. There's blood on the road. There are thirty phone videos. There's a journalist from the Sentinel who watched me walk him here in cuffs. And nothing happens?"

"The rifle will be logged. Harding will note it in the day book. Dennis and his lot will handle the carcass and file their wildlife report. Keith will be spoken to — by Harding, not by us — about the firearm discharge. It'll be a conversation, not a caution. And then he'll go home."

"With the rifle."

"With the rifle. It's licensed. He's permitted."

I picked up my tea again. Drank. It was too hot and too strong and the chipped rim scraped my lip, and none of that mattered because my brain was running two parallel tracks and neither of them was about tea. Track one: he's right. Keith put down a distressed animal that the ranger couldn't control, on a street full of people who were increasingly at risk. Track two: he fired a gun. On Argent Street. On a Friday afternoon. Both tracks were true. Both tracks were correct. And they led to completely different destinations.

"If this were Sydney — " I started.

"It's not Sydney."

Three words. Not sharp, not dismissive. Just final. The quiet closing of a door I'd walked up to and been told, politely, was not mine to open.

Mitchell picked up his mug again. "You charge Keith Barlow, and by Monday every grazier and property owner between here and Menindee knows that the new constable from Sydney arrested a bloke for putting down a roo. Every one of them has a rifle. Every one of them has done the same thing at some point, on their own land if not on the street. And every one of them stops trusting us." He drank. "That's not politics, Massey. That's policing. Out here they're the same thing."

I didn't answer. I was thinking about the blood fanning across the bitumen. The way the kangaroo's tail had slammed the road. The mother clamping her hands over her daughter's eyes. The eight-year-old's grip on my sleeve.

"For what it's worth," Mitchell said, "if someone had fired a rifle on Argent Street and I didn't know why, I'd have done the same thing you did."

I looked up. His face was the same. Steady, contained, giving nothing away. But the words had weight — not thrown, not offered casually. Placed. Deliberately.

"The takedown was clean," he added. "Quick. Controlled. He hit the ground before he knew what was happening. That's good work."

"It doesn't feel like good work."

"No. It won't. Not today."

He finished his tea, rinsed the mug under the tap, and set it upside down on the draining rack. Each movement precise and unhurried — the same economy I'd watched him apply to everything since we'd left the station two hours ago, back when the afternoon had been about walking the beat and learning the streets and the worst thing on the horizon had been a graffiti kid who couldn't finish his tag.

"The son's a different story," Mitchell said.

The shift was immediate. His voice hadn't changed — same volume, same measured cadence — but something beneath it had. A gear engaging. I straightened.

"The taser."

"The taser." Mitchell folded his arms. "That's police-issue equipment. Restricted. You can't buy one at the servo. You can't order one online — not a real one, not the model he used. It came from somewhere, and the somewhere matters."

"Stolen?"

"Maybe. Surplus stock that walked out of a locker. Or sold. Or given." He paused. The silence had a different quality now — tighter, more deliberate. He was choosing what to tell me and what to hold back. "There've been a few bits and pieces over the past year or so. Nothing confirmed. Equipment that doesn't quite tally at stocktake. A baton that turned up at a pawn shop in Mildura. Individually, noise. Together..." He didn't finish the sentence.

"You think it's internal."

Mitchell unfolded his arms. "I think Ryan Barlow is going to tell me where he got that taser, and then I'll know what I think." He looked at me. "I'm going to talk to him now. You're not in the room."

It wasn't a question. I nodded anyway.

"Stay here if you want. Or go back to the desk. Harding's going to handle the Sentinel — he'll go out front in about twenty minutes. You don't need to be involved in that."

He walked out. I heard his footsteps in the corridor — audible this time, which meant he wanted them to be — and then the click of a door opening and closing.

I stood in the kitchen. The kettle ticked as it cooled. The tap dripped. Through the wall, faintly, I heard Mitchell's voice — not the words, just the rhythm. Slow. Patient. The same tone he'd used with the school kids on Argent Street, and with Keith on the bitumen, and with me just now. The tone that said I have all the time in the world, and you're going to tell me what I need to know, because that's how this works.

Then Ryan's voice. Louder. Defensive. A burst of words I couldn't parse, and then silence, and then Mitchell again — slower this time, quieter, and I pressed my palms against the bench and made myself stop listening.

It wasn't my room. It wasn't my conversation.

I poured my tea down the sink and rinsed the Christmas party mug and set it upside down next to Mitchell's on the draining rack, and I went back to my desk.

The post-it note was still there. Greta's number, in my handwriting, tucked beneath the keyboard where I'd left it this morning. I looked at it. The ink had faded slightly in the afternoon light — or maybe it hadn't, maybe that was just the day bending my perception, making everything look slightly different from how it had looked hours ago when I'd written it down and thought that calling Greta Smith was the most important thing I'd do today.

I left it where it was.

From the front of the station, I heard the main door open and close. Harding's footsteps, heavier than Mitchell's, crossing towards the entrance. Going outside. Going to the Sentinel.

I was reaching for the keyboard — not to do anything, just to have something under my fingers — when Brock appeared.

He'd been somewhere in the station all afternoon, presumably, but I hadn't seen him since before the walk. Pressed shirt, steady eyes, not a hair displaced. He stopped at the edge of my desk, glanced at Harding's empty office, glanced at the front door, and looked at me.

"Come on."

He was already walking. I pushed back my chair and followed, because Brock didn't explain things in advance and by the time you'd thought of a question he was usually halfway to the answer. He led me past the interview rooms — Mitchell's voice still audible behind the second door, low and patient — through the back corridor, past the toilets, and out through the side exit into the narrow strip of concrete between the station and the neighbouring fence. The afternoon air hit my face — still warm, but the edge had softened, the sun lower now, throwing long shadows across the pavement. Brock turned left, towards the front of the building, and stopped just short of the corner.

From here, we were maybe four metres from the station's front entrance. Close enough to hear. Partially obscured by the building's corner and a scraggly bottlebrush that had been planted in the strip garden and left to do whatever it wanted, which was apparently to grow sideways. Brock leaned against the brickwork, arms folded, and tilted his head towards the front.

I looked at him.

"Are we spying?"

"Observation." He didn't look at me. "Educational purposes."

"Is there a difference?"

"About two pay grades." The corner of his mouth moved — not quite a smile. "Harding does this well. You should see how it's done."

I edged forward until I could see around the bottlebrush. Harding was already out there, standing on the concrete apron in front of the main entrance, his back straight, hands clasped behind him. He'd put his hat on. I hadn't seen him wear it inside the station all week, but out here, in front of the camera, it was part of the uniform and therefore part of the message. This is official. This is controlled.

Ellen Pascoe stood about two metres in front of him, notepad open against her forearm, pen ready. She'd changed since I'd seen her on the walk — or maybe I was only now seeing her properly. The friendly, calculating face was composed into something more neutral, more professional. Her eyes were sharp and still. Beside her, the tall woman — Isla — had the camera on her shoulder, red light glowing, the lens trained on Harding. She'd positioned herself so the station signage sat just above Harding's right shoulder. Framing. Context.

There was a third person I hadn't expected. A kid — not literally, but barely out of university by the look of him. Skinny, earnest, lanyard around his neck with a Sentinel ID badge he kept touching as though to remind himself it was real. He was holding a phone at chest height, recording audio, and he stood slightly behind Ellen, close enough to pick up everything but positioned with the careful deference of someone who'd been told exactly where to stand and was following instructions to the letter.

"Who's the kid?" I whispered.

Brock glanced. "Intern. Liam something. Ellen's training him. He's been there about a month — still thinks it's exciting."

Harding spoke. His voice carried — clearly, deliberately, pitched for the microphone and the street beyond.

"At approximately three-fifteen this afternoon, New South Wales Police and wildlife rangers responded to reports of a large kangaroo causing disruption on Argent Street. During the course of the incident, a member of the public discharged a firearm. The animal was killed. Police have spoken with the individual involved, and no charges have been laid at this time."

He stopped. Clean, complete, nothing wasted. His hands came from behind his back to his sides — open, palms slightly forward. I filed the gesture without thinking. I have nothing to hide. I'm being transparent. Except he wasn't being transparent. He'd just described the most chaotic twenty minutes of my career in four sentences that could have been about a parking fine.

Ellen's pen had been moving since his first word. She finished her note, looked up, and stepped into the gap he'd left.

"Inspector Harding, can you confirm the firearm was discharged in close proximity to members of the public, including school children?"

"The incident occurred on Argent Street during a busy period. Police are satisfied that the actions taken were in response to an immediate risk posed by the animal."

Smooth. He hadn't confirmed and he hadn't denied. He'd redirected — immediate risk posed by the animal — reframing the gun as a response to danger rather than a source of it.

"Was the individual known to police?"

"The individual is a local resident who voluntarily attended the station and has been cooperative."

Ellen's pen paused. She looked at Harding. The next question was different — I could see her recalibrating, choosing her angle, the slight narrowing of her eyes as she moved from fact-gathering to probing.

"Inspector, witnesses report that an officer physically restrained the man and placed him in handcuffs on Argent Street. There's phone footage circulating on social media. Can you comment on the use of force?"

"She's good," I breathed. Brock made a small sound — not quite a laugh, more an exhalation of agreement.

Harding didn't flinch. His weight shifted, fractionally, from his left foot to his right — the only movement. His voice stayed level.

"An officer responded appropriately to a situation involving a discharged firearm in a public space. The officer's actions were consistent with training and operational procedure. The individual was not injured."

The cheek. Keith's scraped, bleeding cheek. The graze running from his ear to his mouth, the grit embedded in the skin. The individual was not injured. I pressed my back against the brickwork and said nothing.

"Can you identify the officer involved?" Ellen asked.

"I'm not in a position to release the names of individual officers at this time."

The intern shifted his weight. His phone was still up but his eyes were wide, darting between Harding and Ellen, following the exchange like a tennis match. Ellen didn't glance at him. She didn't need to. Her focus was entirely on Harding, and the next question was already loaded.

"Inspector, the phone footage shows the man being walked to the station in handcuffs. You've said no charges have been laid. Can you explain why the man was handcuffed if no crime was committed?"

Brock exhaled through his nose. "There it is."

Harding's hands came together in front of his body. Fingers interlaced. The posture was still open, still controlled, but the interlacing was a tell — a small, unconscious act of self-containment, the body pulling inward while the voice stayed outward. I'd been trained to recognise it in interview subjects. Seeing it on a senior officer was different.

"The officer made a judgment call in a dynamic, fast-moving situation involving a firearm discharge in a crowded area. That judgment call was appropriate given the circumstances as they presented at the time. The individual has been cooperative throughout, and as I've said, no charges have been laid."

As they presented at the time. Future-proofing. If the footage showed something awkward, that phrase gave Harding room to say the officer's information was incomplete. If questions came later about whether the force was justified, the phrase protected both Harding and me. I was watching a man build a legal wall out of thin air, one carefully chosen clause at a time.

Ellen opened her mouth. Harding got there first.

"That's all I'm able to provide at this time. The Silver City Sentinel is welcome to contact the station's media liaison during business hours for any further enquiries. Thank you."

He gave a small nod — professional, final — and turned. Ellen's pen was still moving. She didn't call after him. She knew where the wall was, and she'd got more bricks out of it than he'd intended.

The intern lowered his phone and looked at Ellen with the expression of someone who had just witnessed something extraordinary and didn't have the vocabulary to process it. Ellen was already talking — fast, low, her pen tapping the notepad as she pointed at something she'd written. Isla dropped the camera from her shoulder and stretched her neck, rolling her head from side to side, then had the playback screen open, scrubbing through footage, pausing, rewinding, pausing again. The three of them huddled — close, efficient, the practised triage of a team already building the piece. The intern hovered at the edge, listening, trying to absorb by proximity what experience hadn't yet taught him.

"She got more than he wanted to give," I said.

Brock looked at me for the first time since we'd stationed ourselves against the wall. Something shifted behind his eyes — quick, appraising, gone.

"She always does."

We went back in through the side door. The corridor felt dim after the afternoon light, and the station's hum reassembled around me — the fluorescent buzz, the dripping kitchen tap, the muffled nothing from behind closed doors. As we passed the interview rooms, the second door opened. Ryan came out first — head down, shoulders rounded, the fury from earlier compressed into something quieter and harder to read. Mitchell followed, face giving nothing away, and closed the door behind him.

Ryan didn't look at me. Didn't look at anyone. He walked to the front of the station and sat in the same chair they'd put him in when he first came through, and he put his head in his hands.

Mitchell caught Brock's eye across the room. Something passed between them — not words, not a nod. A look, brief and loaded, that I wasn't meant to interpret and couldn't have if I'd tried.

Brock's hand landed on my shoulder. Light, brief, gone before I'd registered the warmth of it.

"Good work today, Massey."

Four words. No elaboration. He walked to his desk and sat down and started typing, and that was that.