Parallel Requests

"The difference between a proper request and a post-it note is the same as the difference between someone who understands my job and someone who thinks I'm a mind reader."

The cigarette break had taken longer than intended. Twenty minutes rather than the usual ten, but the courtyard had been empty and quiet, the winter sun surprisingly warm against the brick wall where I'd leant, and for those twenty minutes I'd allowed myself to simply exist without managing anyone's expectations or navigating anyone's incompetence.

The nicotine had helped settle the irritation that had been building since this morning's intervention with Sarah. Three decades of similar interventions—young detectives who thought they were being clever whilst actually being obvious, who needed protecting from their own instincts because institutional politics demanded it.

I'd smoked two cigarettes in succession—more than I'd intended, more than the doctor would approve of, but less than I wanted. The packet was nearly empty now. Would definitely need to stop at the shop on the way home.

Returning to my desk, I'd detoured through the kitchenette for fresh coffee. The pot had been half-full, lukewarm and over-stewed from sitting too long on the burner, but I'd poured a cup anyway. Added three sugars—more than usual, but the day had earned them—and carried it back with the careful attention required to avoid spilling on the carpet that maintenance had threatened to replace for over a year without ever following through.

My desk looked exactly as I'd left it—organised chaos that only I understood. Files stacked in precise disorder, pens arranged by preference rather than type, the computer monitor surrounded by a corona of post-it notes in various colours marking different priorities and levels of urgency.

Post-it notes. The bane of my professional existence.

Every detective in the building seemed to think that scribbling illegible instructions on adhesive squares constituted proper documentation. Never mind that I needed official requests for telecommunications providers, formal paperwork for legal compliance, documented trails that would hold up if anyone questioned procedures.

No, they wanted post-it notes. Stuck to my monitor, left on my keyboard, plastered across my desk like bureaucratic confetti.

I set the coffee down carefully—avoiding the cluster of notes already littering the desk surface—and was reaching for my chair when I noticed another had joined the collection during my absence. Bright yellow. Sarah's handwriting. Stuck directly in the centre of my monitor where it blocked half the screen.

Of course.

I peeled it off with more force than necessary, the adhesive making that soft tearing sound as it separated from the glass. Held it up to read, adjusting my glasses as they'd already begun their inevitable slide.

Request phone records for Nial Triffett. Rego: G42-7NP. Forest green Ford Ranger. Issue alert to all patrols. Urgent.

That was it. No formal request number. No case reference. No proper documentation that would let me actually file the request through appropriate channels without creating all the supporting paperwork myself. Just a post-it note with minimal information, written in the same casual shorthand every detective seemed to think was sufficient.

Typical.

The note didn't even include Nial Triffett's full details—no date of birth, no last known address, no phone number I was supposedly requesting records for. Just a name and vehicle registration and the word "urgent" underlined twice, as though emphasis compensated for lack of actual information.

I'd have to look up the rest myself. Pull his details from the system, cross-reference with previous reports, compile what Sarah should have provided if she'd bothered filing a proper request instead of scribbling instructions during whatever brief moment of inspiration had struck her.

But that was what detectives did. All of them. Left notes expecting administrative staff to translate their incomplete thoughts into formal requests, to fill gaps they couldn't be bothered documenting, to transform scribbled urgencies into procedurally correct paperwork.

And Ellen Lowe would do it. Because that was the job. Had always been the job. Would continue being the job until I retired or died at this desk, whichever came first.

I was reading the note for the second time, mentally cataloguing all the additional information I'd need to obtain, when my desk phone rang.

I set the post-it down—it immediately tried to curl at the edges, adhesive weakened from being stuck and unstuck—and reached for the handset automatically. "Ellen Lowe."

"Ellen," Sarah's voice arrived bluntly, carrying that particular quality of professional briskness young detectives affected when trying to sound authoritative. "I'm glad you're back."

Of course you are, I thought, allowing myself the private sarcasm whilst keeping my tone neutral. Wouldn't want your administrative assistant to actually take her legally entitled break time.

"What is it, Sarah?" I asked dryly, the question carrying just enough edge to suggest I'd noticed the slight judgement in her phrasing but not enough to start actual conflict.

Sarah continued without acknowledging the tone. "I just wanted to check that you found the note I left on your desk. I need you to put in a request for Nial Triffett's phone records and issue an alert to all patrols to be on the lookout for his ute. All the details you need are on the note."

All the details I need. The words would have been funny if they weren't so frustratingly typical. The note contained maybe thirty percent of what I'd actually need, the rest left for me to chase down through databases and cross-references because Sarah apparently thought "urgent" was sufficient documentation.

I was opening my mouth to reply—to confirm I'd found her inadequate post-it note, to refrain from pointing out that "all the details" was generous interpretation of what she'd provided—when movement in my peripheral vision made me pause.

Senior Sergeant Mason Wright. Approaching my desk with the purposeful stride of someone who needed something immediately and wasn't interested in convenient timing.

He leant across my shoulder without preamble, without the social niceties that usually preceded interrupting someone's phone conversation. His hand reached for the nearest pen—my good one, the weighted steel barrel I'd had for twenty years—and he began scribbling on the lower half of a printed document he'd pulled from his folder.

The document itself was already covered in text—printed emails or reports, I couldn't tell from this angle—but Mason was writing on the blank space at the bottom, his handwriting quick and nearly illegible.

"Yeah," I said into the phone still pressed against my ear, drawing the word out almost with a slur as I attempted to read what Mason was writing whilst simultaneously maintaining conversation with Sarah. My brain split between two tasks, neither receiving full attention, both demanding it.

My glasses slipped down my nose—the familiar slide that blurred my vision and thwarted any success at reading Mason's scrawled instructions. Perfect timing, of course. Glasses always failed at the exact moment clarity was most needed.

"I found it," I finished, the words emerging automatically whilst my attention remained fixed on Mason's note, on trying to make out words through the blur of inadequate prescription and poor positioning.

"Thanks, Ellen," Sarah replied, her tone suggesting she was already moving on, already considering this matter handled and no longer requiring her attention.

The line went dead. Sarah had hung up without waiting for acknowledgement, without the polite social closing that phone conversations traditionally required. Efficient. Abrupt. Typical Sarah.

I set the handset back in its cradle with my right hand whilst my left pushed my glasses back up my nose, finally bringing Mason's note into focus. The pen fell from his hand as I achieved visual clarity, clinking against my coffee mug as it landed on the desk.

The note was instructions. Names. Phone numbers. Specific requests for information that needed obtaining quietly, through channels that wouldn't generate official paperwork, through the network of contacts I'd spent decades cultivating precisely for moments like this.

Oscar Lahey's name appeared twice. Cross-referenced against dates and locations. Questions about financial transactions and travel patterns. The kind of inquiries that suggested Mason was building a picture of someone's movements, connections, life reconstructed from the digital and paper trails they'd left behind.

"Shred this when you're done," Mason told me, sliding the paper under my nose with deliberate emphasis, ensuring I understood the instruction wasn't casual suggestion but direct order.

"Of course," I replied, placing my left hand over my right to hide the slight tremor that had unexpectedly begun.

The tremor was new. Had started perhaps six months ago, appearing randomly in moments of stress or fatigue, my hands betraying tension my face had learnt to conceal. The doctor had mentioned it during my last appointment—possible early signs of essential tremor, nothing immediately concerning but worth monitoring. Another small degradation in the body that had carried me through fifty-five years and three decades of institutional service.

Mason's mouth twitched but there was no smile. His face remained professionally neutral—the expression of a senior officer delegating sensitive work to someone he trusted absolutely. His head gave the slightest nod of appreciation. Minimal acknowledgement, maximum meaning.

Nodding towards the paper, he added with quiet emphasis, "And be discreet about it."

My expression remained static, betraying nothing of what those words carried, nothing of three decades' worth of discrete inquiries and shredded documents and information obtained through unofficial channels. "You know I always am."

The words were simple statement of fact. Not boasting, not seeking praise, just acknowledgement of reality we both understood. Ellen Lowe's discretion was legendary—institutional knowledge passed down through generations of officers who'd learnt that some work required administrative expertise combined with absolute silence.

Mason's hand gave my shoulder a firm squeeze—the physical gesture carrying more warmth than his words ever did, the kind of contact that said I appreciate you, I trust you, I know this isn't easy without requiring verbal articulation. Then he walked away without another word, his footsteps receding across the office, his attention already shifting to whatever other demands awaited.

I sat there for a long moment after he'd gone, staring at the documents in front of me. Sarah's inadequate post-it note with its thirty percent of necessary information. Mason's handwritten instructions on official letterhead—detailed, specific, the kind of request that demonstrated the difference between someone who understood administrative requirements and someone who thought scribbled urgencies were sufficient.

The irony wasn't lost on me. Sarah was investigating missing persons connected to the Jeffries family, oblivious to the fact that her own brother warranted investigation by senior officers. That I was simultaneously processing her hastily scribbled requests whilst quietly gathering information about Oscar's patterns, his extended absence, his curious disconnection from Tasmania.

Two investigations. Two Laheys. One leaving post-it notes whilst I conducted proper inquiries about the other. The threads wove together in patterns Sarah would probably never understand, connections that remained invisible unless you had institutional memory stretching back through decades.

I picked up Mason's note, studying handwriting that had become familiar through years of similar instructions. The requests were specific, detailed, including everything I'd actually need—full names, dates of birth, account numbers, specific date ranges. Work that would take hours, requiring phone calls to people who owed me favours, that would need completing without leaving trails that could be followed back to official investigation.

The kind of work Ellen Lowe had perfected. The invisible labour that kept institutions functioning whilst maintaining deniability for those who needed it.

I glanced at the clock on my computer screen. Just past two o'clock. Plenty of afternoon left to handle both tasks. Plenty of time to be Ellen Lowe—administrative officer, keeper of secrets, guardian of discretion.

My coffee had gone cold whilst I'd been reading Mason's note. I took a sip anyway, grimacing at the bitter, over-stewed taste. Set the cup down and looked at Sarah's crumpled yellow post-it again, its edges curling, the adhesive leaving faint residue on my fingers.

Bloody post-it notes.

My glasses slipped down my nose again. I pushed them back up with automatic precision, picked up the phone, and began the first of what would be many calls required to handle both Sarah's inadequately documented request and Mason's discrete inquiry.

The work wasn't glamorous. Would never be acknowledged publicly. Wouldn't appear in any performance reviews or generate any commendations.

But it mattered. Kept the machinery functioning. Ensured that detectives like Sarah could leave post-it notes whilst officers like Mason could pursue sensitive inquiries that required discretion rather than documentation.

And when both tasks were complete, when I'd compiled the information Sarah should have provided and gathered the data Mason had properly requested, I'd take Mason's note to the shredder in the records room. Would feed it through the machine that would reduce his handwritten instructions to confetti, to strips too small to reconstruct, to evidence that had never officially existed.

Because that was what discretion meant. Not just keeping secrets, but ensuring some secrets never left traces at all.

The phone rang on the other end of the line. A telecommunications supervisor I'd worked with for fifteen years answered with professional warmth. "Ellen! How can I help you today?"

I settled into my chair, adjusted my glasses one more time, and began the careful dance of obtaining information through official channels whilst preparing for the more delicate work that would come later.

Patient, competent, invisibly essential.

The keeper of secrets who knew which ones to document and which ones to shred.

Who knew the difference between a proper request and a bloody post-it note.