Casualties of Investigation

"Farm animals have it out for me today. At this rate, I'll need more stitches than I have fingers."

As I neared the large barn, caution enveloped me. The structure was old and weathered, yet there was an undeniable charm to it. Constructed from Tasmanian oak, it had a certain robust elegance that spoke of careful craftsmanship. Despite its age, it stood solid and imposing.

My gun remained in ready position. I moved through the lush grass, which had taken over the cobbled path leading to the entrance. The overgrown vegetation was a sign of neglect, contrasting with the otherwise sturdy appearance of the barn.

Neglected paths meant infrequent use, but that padlock I could see on the door suggested something worth securing. The contradiction was interesting, worth investigating.

As I reached the solid, wooden door, I paused for a moment.

"Police!" I called out firmly, my voice echoing slightly.

I knocked sharply on the door, the sound resonating against the old wood. I tried to pull it open, only to find it secured by chains and a padlock. The rattling of the chains added to the eerie silence, metal against wood creating a discordant sound.

Locked. Properly locked.

Realising the front door wasn't an option, I decided to explore the perimeter for an alternate entrance. Rural buildings this old usually had multiple points of weakness that time and weather had created.

I moved cautiously along the side, every sense alert. My eyes scanned for any other points of entry, whilst my ears strained to pick up any sound from inside. The possibility of someone being inside kept me on edge.

The sense of isolation intensified as I tiptoed along the weathered timber wall. The dense forest encircling the clearing seemed to stand as silent witness to my every step, adding to the eerie stillness. Trees pressed close, their presence both protective and threatening.

We were a long way from backup. Just Karl and me.

I couldn't help but cry out in sudden pain as a long splinter embedded itself into the top of my left index finger—the uninjured hand, of course. I had been absentmindedly running my hand along the rough wood, more focused on listening for sounds from inside than on the potential hazards of the old structure.

"Fuck," I muttered under my breath.

Because of course. Six stitches in one hand wasn't enough, apparently. The universe had decided I needed matching wounds.

I gritted my teeth and swiftly pulled the splinter out with my blunt nails. The sting was sharp. A small bead of blood welled up from the puncture wound.

I wiped it on my trousers and pushed the discomfort aside, knowing there were more pressing matters at hand.

No sooner had I dealt with the splinter than a loud clang erupted from inside the barn. The sudden noise startled me, adrenaline flooding my system. I instinctively retreated, spinning around to face the source, my gun up and ready, body tensing.

Someone was inside. Something was inside.

My finger found the trigger guard, not quite touching the trigger but ready.

As I cautiously moved forward, I felt an abrupt whack against the back of my head. The sound of a loud crack followed the impact. Pain exploded through my skull.

White light burst across my vision. My knees buckled. I had to brace myself against the barn wall to keep from falling.

Not again. Not another head injury.

Panic flared—the kind of fear that came with knowing head injuries compounded, that second impacts were exponentially more dangerous.

Reacting instinctively, I swivelled around and swiped at the object that had hit me—a slender, wooden rake handle, still wobbling from momentum. The rake head lay on the ground nearby, suggesting I'd stepped on it.

Except there was nothing funny about it. Not when my head was already injured.

I closed my eyes briefly, massaging the sore spot where the rake had made contact, right at the base of my skull. I could feel a lump already forming. Add it to the collection—the haematoma on my left temple, the stitches in my right palm, the splinter puncture in my left index finger.

A series of cartoonish images flashed through my mind despite the pain—Wile E. Coyote, Tom and Jerry, all the slapstick violence that was supposed to be funny because cartoon characters recovered instantly.

It's not turning out to be a good day for me, I thought, dark humour the only defence against mounting disasters.

I should call Karl. Should tell him I'd just taken another blow to the head. Should get checked out immediately.

But calling Karl meant admitting weakness, meant explaining I'd been hit by a rake because I wasn't paying attention, meant potentially being pulled from the investigation.

So I said nothing. Just breathed through the pain, waited for the world to stabilise.

The lies we told ourselves were sometimes the most dangerous ones.

Regaining my composure, I reopened my eyes, only to find a small black cat stalking something in the underbrush ahead. The cat's sleek body moved with predator's grace, completely absorbed in its pursuit.

Animals. Of course there were more animals.

"What is it?" I whispered, but it paid me no mind, its focus unbroken.

Driven by curiosity and a need to distract myself from my self-inflicted pains—both physical and the emotional mortification of having been assaulted by farm equipment—I quietly followed the cat.

I spotted the object of its interest: a small, brown and grey duck, lost amidst the tall grass, evidently trying to find its way to the spring-fed dam. The duck appeared confused and vulnerable, making soft, distressed sounds.

A small creature, lost, trying to find its way home whilst something predatory stalked it. The metaphor wasn't lost on me.

Feeling a surge of sympathy, I intervened. I shooed the cat away with a gentle hiss, which it met with a disgruntled look before disappearing into the bushes with offended dignity. The duck, startled, let out a panicked quack but didn't flee.

Moved by the duck's plight, I decided to help it find its way. I crept behind it, using my hands to gently guide and encourage the bird towards the dam. I was careful not to scare it, moving slowly.

A small kindness. A small moment of doing something simple, something good.

The duck waddled forward, occasionally looking back at me with its small, dark eyes.

Finally, the duck reached the edge and waddled in with evident relief. Watching it paddle away, a sense of accomplishment washed over me. There was something heartwarming about helping a small creature in distress.

Something saved. Something helped. Small victory.

Intently focused on helping the duck and momentarily revelling in my saint-like goodness, my attention was completely diverted from any potential threats.

Suddenly, I felt a sharp, forceful impact against my backside. The unexpected blow threw me off balance, and I tumbled awkwardly into the mud at the edge of the dam. I landed hard among the reeds, the impact knocking the wind from my lungs.

Sharp pain shot through my body as I saw blood start to seep through the bandage on my right hand. The stitches. I'd landed on my hand, probably torn at least some of them loose.

"No, no, no," I gasped, looking at the spreading red stain on the white bandage.

A loud clap of thunder boomed overhead, startling me into a defensive crouch. As the first drops of rain began to fall—cold, heavy—my eyes darted around, searching for the source of my attack.

Out of the corner of my eye, I caught sight of a large, grey figure rising and barrelling towards me from the right.

"Shit!" I cried out, trying to regain my footing in the slick mud, panic overriding training as I scrambled backwards.

As I pressed my bleeding palm into the ground to push myself up, it slipped in the mud, and I tumbled backward, landing with a splash in the muddy water. Cold water soaked through my clothes immediately.

The goose, undeterred, dived at me again, this time aiming straight for my face. Wings beat at me, surprisingly powerful, surprisingly painful. The beak snapped close to my eyes, close enough that I could see the serrated edges, close enough that I understood exactly how much damage it could do.

In that moment, primal instinct overrode all reason. I raised my left arm defensively, the gun still gripped in my hand. The weapon was just there, was just ready, was just an extension of my arm as it came up to protect my face.

The shot went off almost reflexively. I didn't decide to shoot—there was no conscious choice, no tactical assessment. Just lizard brain survival instinct recognising threat-to-face and responding with available tools.

The sound was deafening. The recoil jarred my injured hand viciously, fresh blood blooming through the bandage, pain exploding up my arm.

The shot was precise and true despite my compromised position, despite the mud and water and panic. The goose crashed to the ground next to me, its war cry abruptly silenced, wings folding with a soft, final thud.

For a moment, I just sat there in the mud and water, breathing hard, heart racing, staring at the motionless bird beside me. Steam rose from the entry wound, visible even through the rain that was now falling steadily.

Gasping for breath, I watched in shock as blood began to ooze from the bullet wound in the goose's chest, spreading into the water around us, turning it pink. My heart raced, adrenaline coursing through my veins in waves that made me shake. I had never intended to shoot, let alone kill, but the suddenness of the attack had left me with no time to think.

Just reaction. Just survival. Just pulling a trigger because something was attacking my face and I had a gun in my hand.

Sitting there in the mud, soaked from the rain, with the lifeless goose beside me and blood from my hand mixing with the water, I felt a mix of relief, guilt, and disbelief.

I'd shot a goose.

I'd actually shot a goose.

A trained detective, armed with a service weapon, had just killed a barnyard animal because it had attacked me whilst I was rescuing a duck.

The sentence barely made sense even as I thought it.

Tears welled up in my eyes—from pain, from shock, from the overwhelming accumulation of everything that had gone wrong. I quickly wiped them away with the back of my sleeve, trying to compose myself, trying to be professional.

But the tears kept coming anyway, mixing with the rain on my face.

"Sarah!" Karl's voice rang out, filled with concern as he ran toward me through the rain.

I turned my head to look back at him, my vision blurred by tears despite my best efforts to contain them. I quickly wiped them away with the back of my sleeve, trying to maintain some shred of dignity, failing at both.

Karl's footsteps slowed as he approached, his expression changing from concern to confusion when he saw the small, motionless body of the goose lying beside me in the reeds. His eyes went from me to the bird to the gun still clutched in my hand to the blood-soaked bandage to my face, processing, calculating.

"Ah, shit, Sarah," he sighed, his voice laced with a mixture of disbelief and frustration, the kind of exasperation that suggested he knew exactly how much paperwork this was going to generate.

Because that was what mattered, apparently. Not that I'd been attacked, not that I was injured, not that I was sitting in a dam in the rain having just killed an animal in what amounted to self-defence.

The paperwork.

"I didn't mean to," I stammered, my voice shaky as I wiped another tear from my eye, hating how weak I sounded. The guilt was overwhelming; I never intended for this to happen.

Karl reached out, grabbing me by the arm and gently helping me to my feet. "You just shot their goose!" he exclaimed, his tone a mix of incredulity and exasperation.

"It was an accident! She flew at me. I swear she was coming for my face," I defended myself, still reeling from the shock. My heart was racing, and my thoughts were a jumble of guilt and self-justification and awareness that this looked absolutely ridiculous.

A detective. Shot a goose. In self-defence.

The sentence remained absurd no matter how many times I thought it.

Karl looked at me, his frustration clear, his jaw tight. "Do you have any idea how much paperwork this is going to be?" he asked, his voice tinged with annoyance.

His focus on the paperwork rather than my wellbeing soured my mood further, transformed guilt into anger in the space between heartbeats. "I could have been seriously injured," I retorted, feeling undervalued and overlooked.

Because a goose might seem harmless, might seem comical, but geese could actually cause serious injuries. Broken bones from wing strikes. Severe lacerations from beaks. It wasn't actually funny. It was actually dangerous.

But Karl couldn't see that. Could only see the paperwork, the explanation we'd have to file, the questions from command.

"Well, at least you wouldn't be dead," Karl shot back, gesturing towards the lifeless goose at my feet. His words, meant to be pragmatic, only served to heighten my frustration.

The dismissiveness of it. The casual way he minimised what I'd just experienced. The complete lack of empathy or support after yesterday when he'd been the one who'd hurt me, when I'd been the one who'd protected him despite the cost.

"You can be a real insensitive bastard sometimes, Karl!" I yelled at him, the stress finally boiling over. Without waiting for a response, I turned and began a stormy march back to the car.

Every step was fuelled by a mix of embarrassment, guilt, and anger. My soaked clothes clung to me uncomfortably, cold and heavy. My hand throbbed with each movement, blood still seeping through the bandage.

And Karl—Karl who'd caused my injuries in the first place, Karl who I'd protected with lies, Karl who'd just dismissed my genuine danger because it involved a goose rather than a person—couldn't even muster basic human sympathy.

"Sarah, wait!" Karl's voice followed me, echoing with urgency through the pouring rain.

I ignored him, my strides a mix of frustration and indignation as I trudged through the tall, wet grass. My mind was a tumult of emotions, replaying the absurd scene with the goose, Karl's reaction, and the overall ridiculousness of the situation.

"There's blood in the house," Karl yelled, his voice piercing through the stormy air and halting me in my tracks.

Blood. Right. Evidence. The reason we were here.

The Owens' disappearance. The investigation. The actual job we were supposed to be doing instead of fighting about poultry.

I turned slightly, the rain running down my face, mixing with tears I was still trying to hide. "And a body?" I called back, half-expecting to hear the worst.

Karl shook his head. "No. Just the goose," he replied, and then—then—he nudged the dead bird with his foot, an unnecessary confirmation of its demise, a casual gesture that felt deliberately callous.

His action only served to irritate me further.

"Bastard," I muttered under my breath, my frustration reaching a boiling point, the word carrying more weight than it should, meaning more than just this moment, encompassing yesterday and today and everything that had broken between us.

Turning fully to face him through the rain, I announced with as much professional dignity as I could muster whilst soaked, injured, and emotionally compromised, "I'll go call for forensics."

Because that was what detectives did. We found evidence, we called it in, we followed procedure even when everything was falling apart.

Even when we'd just shot a goose and our partners were insensitive bastards and our heads were pounding and our hands were bleeding and nothing about any of this made sense anymore.