I ride the elevator to the fourth floor, then turn left and head for the bull pen of the Major Crimes Unit. I reach my desk—which is usually covered with bulging folders and stacks of papers, but today is eerily clean—and keep going toward the corner office.

Lots of memories in that crowded bull pen come to me, of long days and longer nights, endless phone calls and data searches, interviews with grieving family members and sullen suspects, working to serve and protect the city I love and its citizens.

Through the open door of the corner office, Chief of Detectives Brian Cunningham is inside, sitting behind his desk, barking into the phone. This smart, driven, paunchy, balding middle-aged cop has been my boss for the past six years. A good one, too. He’s got a passion for cracking cases and keeping this city safe that rivals my own. The moment Cunningham sees me, he hangs up the phone with a heavy slam and beckons me in.

“Caleb!” he calls out. “Come in, come in. You’re out of the hearing already? How’d it go?”

“You could’ve seen it yourself,” I answer. “It would’ve been nice to have my chief in the stands cheering me on.”

“Jesus, don’t start,” Cunningham says, popping a fistful of Tums into his mouth like candy. “I submitted my supporting statement. Spoke to Bossett. Having a CO show up at one of his guys’ review panels—it’s just not done. It’s poor form. It could hurt rather than help, Caleb.”

I shake my head in disbelief.

“Know what else is poor form?” I ask. “Turning that panel into a circus. Putting a top detective through the wringer, making him a scapegoat just for doing his job. This department’s changing, Chief. I barely recognize it. And I don’t like it.”

“I know, I know,” Cunningham says, his voice tired. “Me neither. But to do what we do, that’s the system we have. What else can we do?”

I consider his words for a moment, and feel something brewing inside me, something that’s been haunting me for weeks ever since the shooting. I take my detective ID badge out of my pocket.

“I can think of something,” I say.

I toss the plastic card and lanyard at Cunningham, who fumbles to catch it.

“What the hell is this?” he asks in disbelief.

“You already have my Glock and shield,” I say. “Keep ’em.”

Cunningham’s jaw goes slack, his eyes wide with disbelief.

“Jesus Christ, Rooney! Hang on … you—you’re not really—”

“I am,” I say, my voice thick. “It’s been a good run, Chief, but I’m done with all this horseshit. I’m out.”

I turn and walk out, dust from somewhere suddenly collecting in my eyes.

CHAPTER 6