Nothing on Record

“The report never tells you what mattered. It just lists what can be proven — and that’s never the same thing.”

"Detective Karl Jenkins," I announced into my mobile, trying to infuse a sense of control and calm into my voice that I wasn't really feeling. It came out with a forced steadiness, the kind that felt like it might crack under pressure, like ice over water that's just a bit too thin.

"Detective," came a young woman's voice, tinged with an unmistakable strain of anxiety and fear that I'd learned to recognise instantly.

I recognised Jenny Triffett's voice immediately. It had a certain firmness to it, a strength born of adversity and necessity, yet there was an underlying soothing quality, like a calm surface hiding turbulent depths beneath. It hit me with an uncomfortable weight; there had been too many voices like hers lately—grief pressed flat beneath polite desperation, trauma packaged in reasonable requests.

"Mrs Triffett," I responded, straightening in my chair despite the protest from my bruised ribs, trying to anchor myself in professionalism as I shifted to a more attentive posture. My free hand brushed against a stack of neglected case files on my desk, their edges sharp against my palm. "What can I do for you?"

"I want to know what's going on with the investigation into my missing husband," she demanded, her voice carrying a mix of desperation and resolve that was almost physical in its intensity.

"Have you not heard anything further from him?" I inquired, my tone gentle, employing that detective's default softness reserved for those whose lives are beginning to unravel in real time. "No calls. No text messages?"

"Nothing!" Jenny's response was sharp, a snap of words that spoke volumes of her frustration and fear, the exclamation mark audible in her voice.

"We're still investigating several new leads," I assured her, trying to sound confident, to provide her with a semblance of hope in the midst of her turmoil. The words felt mechanical, overly rehearsed, hollow. How many times had I said something like this in the last week alone? Too many. Far too many. And how many of those leads had actually panned out? None.

Then, a soft sob broke through the line, pulling at my heartstrings with cruel precision. It was involuntary, raw, and honest—cutting through all the rehearsed words and practiced empathy. "Please, Karl," Jenny's voice, now breaking with emotion, pleaded with a familiarity that made it worse. "Just tell me something, anything!" she begged.

I closed my eyes for a moment, swallowing the ache that rose unbidden in my throat. Guilt sat like a stone on my chest, pressing down harder with every plea I couldn't answer honestly. I didn't want to lie to her—but I didn't have the truth either. What could I tell her? That her husband had gone to meet a man who might be a serial killer? That I'd broken into that man's house and accidentally killed someone? That I had no idea where Nial was or if he was even still alive?

I paused, glancing instinctively across the bullpen, desperate for any excuse to end this call. Movement caught my eye. At the far end of the office, just beyond the glass partition that separated the main bullpen from the interview corridor, I saw Sarah. She was walking past with a familiar figure at her side. My breath caught.

Gladys Cramer.

Escorted. Calm. Focused. Moving with purpose.

They headed towards one of the interview rooms with the determination of people who had information to extract.

My heart kicked into a faster rhythm, adrenaline surging despite my exhaustion. How the hell did Sarah manage to bring Gladys in? My mind raced, a dozen questions forming at once, competing for attention. What had changed? Had Gladys come in voluntarily? Was this linked to something I'd missed while spiralling in my own fallout? Had Sarah found something I hadn't?

"Are you still there, Detective?" Jenny's voice, laced with a growing worry that bordered on panic, jolted me back from my thoughts.

"Ahh… yeah… Look Jenny, I'm really sorry. I'll call you back in a couple of hours," I replied, my voice trailing off, feeling the words scrape out of me with a guilty edge that cut deeper than I wanted to acknowledge.

I hung up the phone hastily, cutting off the call before Jenny had the chance to respond or protest. The click of the disconnection echoed too loudly in my ear, final and damning.

A knot of shame twisted in my gut like a living thing. I had just brushed off a grieving woman—again. Another person I'd failed, another promise I probably wouldn't keep. But the sight of Sarah and Gladys together burned in my mind like a flare in darkness, impossible to ignore. Whatever was happening now could be critical, could be the break we needed. There wasn't room for both priorities, not in that moment, and I knew exactly which one would haunt me later, which choice would add to the growing pile of regrets.

---

"And where do you think you're going?" Sergeant Claiborne's voice rang out, halting me in my tracks as I jogged down the corridor with more energy than my bruised body appreciated.

The sharp command stopped me mid-stride with the force of authority. Ahead of me, I saw Sarah ushering Gladys into the interview room at the far end, their silhouettes disappearing behind the door. The sight sent a jolt of urgency through my chest that overrode the ache in my ribs—what the hell is she doing with her? The door was already half-closed, and I could feel the crucial moments slipping away, each second lost forever.

"Fuck it," I muttered under my breath, my pace faltering into a reluctant walk as reality reasserted itself. The soft, definitive click of the interview room door as it closed sounded louder than it should have—final, immovable, a physical barrier. A barrier now stood between me and whatever revelations were about to unfold. A critical moment, sealed off from me by protocol and circumstance.

Behind me, Claiborne's presence thickened the air like humidity before a storm. His shadow, long and deliberate, stretched along the linoleum floor, a dark banner of authority trailing just behind my heels like a warning.

I turned, intending to breeze past him with casual indifference, to escape before he could pull me back into whatever version of professional limbo he was preparing for me next. I avoided his gaze deliberately, eyes low, feigning distraction—but I could feel his scrutiny anyway, as if it were heat on the back of my neck.

"Jenkins," he said, and this time the name wasn't barked or commanded—it was loaded, weighted.

I stopped again. My instincts told me to keep walking, but instinct was what got me into this mess in the first place.

He brushed past me without pause, close enough that I felt the rustle of his sleeve against mine, close enough to smell his cologne. His pace was calm, controlled, measured—the embodiment of someone who knew his authority didn't need raising his voice or making threats.

"Follow me," he instructed with quiet command. No explanation, no glance back, no room for negotiation.

Resigned, I obeyed, falling into step behind him. My boots echoed on the corridor tiles like hammers on stone, each step announcing my presence, my compliance.

Standing once more at the threshold of Claiborne's office, I hesitated, feet faltering on the carpet. My feet faltered on the carpet, as though the air inside were denser, harder to move through, as if crossing that threshold meant something more than just entering a room. This wasn't just a follow-up; it felt like a reckoning. My stomach twisted with that sixth sense dread—the one you develop on the job, when you know something is wrong long before it becomes obvious, before the evidence makes it undeniable.

"I'm about to read Sarah's report from this morning," Sergeant Claiborne announced without preamble, dropping the statement like a loaded weapon between us.

He tossed a manila folder onto his desk—clean, uncreased, not yet opened, pristine. It landed with a soft thud that reverberated through my spine like a minor earthquake, innocent in sound but loaded with implication.

I stared at it like it might combust, like opening it might release something that couldn't be contained. That folder had weight. Not physical—but the kind that can crush a man all the same, the kind that changes lives.

My pulse spiked involuntarily, my body betraying me as the adrenaline surged through my system. My eyes darted briefly to the door—still open, offering escape. Part of my brain was already compiling options, running scenarios, absurd though they were. If this was it… if she'd put it all in writing… if she'd reported what I'd done…

"Oh," I said, the word escaping like a deflated balloon, all air and no substance. It was all I could manage. Any more and my voice might splinter, might crack and reveal the panic churning beneath the surface.

Claiborne moved with the precision of someone performing a ritual he'd done a thousand times. Slow, deliberate, controlled, like a judge preparing to deliver a verdict. He reached into his top drawer and pulled something out.

"You can have your gun back now, Jenkins," he said. No expression. No smile. No accusation. Just that same flat, unreadable tone that gave nothing away.

The words stunned me for a moment, didn't quite process. I blinked, unsure if I'd heard right, waiting for the other shoe to drop. Then my hand moved, almost without conscious thought, reaching for the familiar weight as he held it out.

"Thank you, Sergeant," I murmured, holstering it with ease despite my trembling fingers. The sensation of it at my hip steadied me, faintly, like an anchor dropping. A relic of normality, a sliver of the role I used to fill with pride, back when things were simpler and I knew which side of the law I stood on.

We stood there for a beat, eyes locked in silent communication. A strange quiet bloomed between us, heavy with meaning. I sensed more—unspoken layers beneath his stare, questions he wasn't asking. Something he wasn't ready to say. Or maybe something he was daring me to admit first, testing to see if I'd break.

Then, finally:

"That's all," he said, voice clipped and final, dismissive. He gestured at the door with one hand, already looking back down at the folder on his desk.

"And close the door behind you," he added without looking up.

Dismissed.

I turned without a word, my mind a kaleidoscope of relief, dread, and questions that had no answers. The metallic clunk of the door latch behind me rang with the weight of things unspoken, of secrets kept. Of truths being kept on both sides. And of another storm gathering just over the horizon, dark clouds massing.

---

I slumped back into my chair, feeling the full weight of the day's events pressing down on me like a physical burden. The seat, once a place of focus and control, now felt like a holding cell, confining me in a limbo of uncertainty and anxiety that stretched in every direction. The familiar contours of the chair, once a source of comfort after long days in the field, now felt restrictive—more like a restraint than a refuge, holding me in place when I needed to move.

I had waited half the day, each minute stretching out endlessly like taffy pulled thin, for the all-clear to go back into the field, back to the environment where I felt most in control, where I could actively chase down leads and make a difference rather than drowning in paperwork and paranoia. But here I was—gun holstered once again at my hip where it belonged, badge technically intact and authority restored—and yet completely powerless in any way that mattered. I was reinstated in name only, still caged within these walls, watching from the sidelines while the investigation unfolded without me, a spectator at my own case.

The apprehension gnawing at me was relentless, a constant companion. Not knowing who had called in the report or what they might uncover at the scene was like a slow poison, eating away at the remnants of my sanity one drop at a time. The anonymity of the accusation hung over me like an invisible guillotine, its blade poised and gleaming, just waiting to drop. Each tick of the clock seemed to echo in the otherwise silent room, a slow metronome marking time until the truth caught up with me, until someone found that body under the stairs.

Now that I had my gun back—a symbol of my reinstated authority and purpose, proof that I hadn't been completely cast out—I found myself still anchored to my desk, immobile, waiting. Waiting for Sarah to return from her interview with Gladys. Waiting for some piece of information that could either salvage the situation or send it spiralling further out of control, whether anyone had found the body yet. The suspense was like a physical entity, a heavy cloud looming over me, draining the energy from my body drop by drop. Even breathing felt like a conscious effort, something I had to remember to do.

I found myself staring blankly at the computer screen, the soft glow flickering across my face in the dimming office. Lines of text and open windows blurred into meaningless static, the sharpness of my vision clouded by fatigue and spiralling thoughts that wouldn't stay linear. Every few seconds, my eyes would lose focus and my mind would slip—into the past, into that house, onto the stairs, into the cupboard under the stairs—over and over again like a loop I couldn't escape. Each memory hit like a cold splash of water: the impact, the crack, the unnatural angle of his neck, the body under the stairs growing colder.

The office, usually a buzzing hive of activity and purpose, now seemed eerily quiet, as if reflecting my internal turmoil, as if the building itself knew what I'd done. A distant murmur of voices from across the bullpen offered faint background noise, but none of it anchored me to the present. I felt like a ghost at my own desk, visible but not present, there but not really there.

Every so often, I'd glance towards the door, anticipating Sarah's return with a mixture of dread and desperate hope, each time met with disappointment as the doorway remained empty. I watched shadows pass in the corridor, but none belonged to her. No silhouette paused, no footsteps with that particular cadence. The waiting was the hardest part—the not knowing, the helplessness of being stuck in a state of inaction while everything happened around me.

I tapped my fingers on the desk, a restless rhythm that mirrored my inner restlessness, each tap a silent cry for movement, for purpose, for something. The sound was the only thing cutting through the oppressive quiet, a reminder that I was still here—still something, still alive and functioning even if barely. I wanted her to walk through that door and explain everything. Or accuse me. Or say anything at all that would break this terrible silence.

A part of me longed for the confrontation, for the truth to finally surface and be dealt with. The pieces of the puzzle were out there, scattered like bones in a dark field, waiting to be assembled. But for now, they remained just out of reach, hidden in the shadows of unfolding events I couldn't control.