Who could resist an organic breakfast bar, and a free one at that? Marketing at its best. He looked at his glasses on the table, with their thick jet-black frames. They almost looked like novelty glasses. Wearing those, he’d know exactly who were going to receive the lovely organic breakfast bars. He placed the bars and his glasses in his backpack, threw it over his shoulder, put on his baseball cap, and left. He walked out, softly singing a song.

* * *

Jack Kinnaird sat in the police headquarters’ amenities area, fighting off tiredness. Cath picked up her backpack, looked back and gave him a small nod as she headed towards the exit. She needed some sleep and was happy to jump on public transport for the short trip home. He gave her a soft brush away and a slight shake of the head. He wasn’t leaving. She understood. It had been a long night, and he still had some reporting to do before he could leave. It was his responsibility.

They had worked with the officers involved in the shooting, helping them deal with what took place. Some were more distraught than others, and a counsellor had been called in. Some officers not involved in the incident had been sent off to inform relatives of the deaths of both the innocent and the accused, a task Jack loathed. He’d had loved ones collapse in his arms even before breaking the news. Life could be so hard. The drink helped deal with such things for both officers and the victims.  

He looked into his cup and finished what was left of his coffee. The sun was reflecting from an adjacent building and another officer walked over to pull down a blind. Blocking the sunlight was a little sad. They’d be better off putting on sunglasses. Impractical inside, but it reminded him of some evidence they’d located. He’d walked the route the suspect had taken, noting the CCTV locations and asking officers to follow up. During the stroll, he’d seen an officer coming out of the shadows onto the path carrying what looked like glasses sealed in a plastic bag.

Jack had asked if they belonged to the suspect.

The officer believed they did, as a witness had seen the man running, reach to his face, and throw something. Jack told the officer he’d done well. If the glasses belonged to the suspect, it was either to look cool or to hide the damage of years of drug-assisted sleep deprivation—more likely the latter. These thoughts were confirmed when the officer told him the witness said the man appeared crazy, swinging his arms at things that weren’t there.

Invisible things. But some people did see unseen things. Jack had encountered one such person in a previous case. But Jack had little time for that world—he was too caught up in this world.

The crime seemed straightforward except that two people were now dead—the victim and the suspect—and a group of police officers were now under investigation. Been there, done that.

The public didn’t understand a handgun was the best weapon for police to defend themselves in close-range violent situations. Stun guns put officers in a vulnerable position when faced with an attacker with a knife or gun. Miss with the taser and the officer was dead. The general public didn’t encounter such things and didn’t like cops shooting people, so to keep peace with the public, and be shielded from legal liabilities, all shootings required an internal investigation, making it all a long drawn-out affair for those involved. Jack gave a soft sigh.

Many of the officers had a distorted recollection of what took place. Long-lasting negative effects could be avoided with good support systems, both counsellors and the support officers received from other officers. They’d been trained for such situations, situations where their life was in danger and they had to respond. In some cases, joy would appear, the joy of being alive and overcoming a dangerous situation. Some felt guilty about not feeling bad about what happened.

Jack stood to leave when Rick, one of the officers involved in the incident came in, and headed to the vending machines. A thump came from a can hitting the dispensing tray. Rick headed over to Jack, energy drink in hand.

“Jack.” The officer gave a nod as he pulled back the ring top on the can.

“Hi, Rick. You doing okay?” The hissing sound from the can opening had Jack considering if he wanted an energy drink.

“Not bad.” He pointed to a chair. “Got a minute?”

“Sure.”

Rick took a large gulp from his drink and raised his eyes as if to emphasise the energy hit. “All this investigation and counselling stuff bugs me. They’re just shielding themselves from the legal stuff, aren’t they?”

Jack nodded. “Maybe. Some will need counselling more than others. Some are more resilient than others.”

He put himself in that category. What category did Rick fit into? Jack could shake things off and move on, although the reliance on the after-hours drink helped him and many others. But he had eased out of the drink culture. It used to be the drink that turned him into the tough no-doubting cop, but the effects of alcohol had changed. Now it was no drinking, no doubts. Well, fewer doubts. The drink had helped him control police life but not his home life. One robbed the other, or one invaded the other.

Rick stared at his energy drink like it was a work of art. He turned to Jack. “A few of us have chatted about what happened. We had to do what we did. He was one crazy man.”

“Yep. Keep that willingness to discuss the event with each other. Some believe peer counselling can be more helpful than the other strategies.” He sounded far too official. He needed to chill.

Rick nodded. “He was off the planet. I had a peek at the incident report. What do you think he meant by saying he wasn’t an amber person, but the victim was?”

“Strange comment.” Jack pointed to his laptop. “I’ve been curious about that, too. Did a little research on what amber could mean.”

Rick took another gulp of his drink, shook his head and looked at the can. “This stuff really works.”

“Might need to invest.”  Jack looked over at the scribbles on his notepad next to his laptop. “Well, there’s the obvious meanings—a colour or fossilised tree resin. But in the Urban Dictionary, amber refers to something that stands out. A bubbly person, someone you’re attached to. Could be a fatal attraction? An act of jealousy? Was he a loner? Did they know each other? Those are the questions we need to explore.”

“Urban Dictionary is like another planet. Pity it’s so full of offensive material. And I’m not sure how true some of the stuff is.”

“Bit like the world we live in.  I suppose that’s why Urban Dictionary is such a good source of information. Gets us in touch with reality.”

Rick gave his can a gentle shake.

The incident report indicated that one officer’s response was unusual. Three out of four officers shot, but one didn’t. Was there a personal connection? One officer hinted there might be—he thought he saw the suspect give a subtle nod of recognition to the officer in question. Jack needed to explore that line of thought further. He didn’t need to explore this with Rick.

Rick finished off his drink. ‘Well, I’m energised. Off to the gym I go. Thanks for the chat.”

“No problem. Make sure you keep talking and let us know if anything else comes to mind.”

Jack watched Rick leave and then looked over at the vending machines. No, he could go without. A walk would be better. He needed a time of reflection. Time to escape the office environment and collect his thoughts before finalising his brief on the night events and hand it over to the internal investigation unit.

As he left the building, the balminess of the morning caught him by surprise, but it did bring a dose of recharging. He needed that, badly. Yes, the heat had returned. According to the weather forecast, the city of Brisbane was about to melt in a heat wave. Not unusual for February, but the nights had been cool of late, and he’d been pulling up the covers and turning off the ceiling fans before entering his sleep world. The relief from the heat was short-lived in more ways than one. Jack had a problem. A few. His mind was a battleground.

3 - Orange man

Jack strolled down Roma Street towards King George Square. The palm trees along the street were still, indicating the humidity was returning—there was nothing to blow the heat away. He grabbed a thickshake from a café he passed and sipped it as he walked past the street art guarding the law courts. Not really guarding, but a symbol of our striding and keeping pace with the tempo of life. Or so the local council said. But why a large kangaroo wearing gumboots? Symbolism. The dark eyes of the tall kangaroo sculpture followed him as he passed, challenging his thoughts. Jack raised his eyebrow and chuckled to himself. Proof to overseas friends that Aussie’s do have kangaroos hopping down their main streets.

The thickshake was cool in his hands and reminded him it was there to be drunk. He took a mouthful. He’d tried kangaroo meat once but found it had a gamey taste. Was that how it tasted, or had his mind convinced him of that due to his sensitive nature—he couldn’t kill an ant but could kill a man. A paradox? The walk was working. His mind was clearing. Sort of.

He stopped at a set of traffic lights displaying an amber signal. Amber was an easy colour to see. Was there a connection to the recent murder? Yes, an easy-to-see colour but one that warned of change, of something coming.

It was just past seven, and people were making their way to their offices and other places of work. Busy zigzagging, avoiding each other but with purpose. The opposite was the helter-skelter of confusion and disorder. The term was fresh in Jack’s mind. The Charles Manson mass murders were background material to a recent work study on cults. Helter-skelter. A strange term. There was a loose connection to the Beatles song, which no one wanted to be there. The British saw a helter-skelter as an amusement park ride. That was his preference.

The man they shot … all who pulled the trigger experienced the death. Some would sail smoothly through the experience, while others would have a bumpier ride. He’d been there, done that. They’d been monitoring him for post-traumatic stress disorder but he’d passed all the tests. So far. They told him the symptoms were there, but he didn’t have full-blown PTSD. He was also hanging around for an appointment with the counsellor this morning—the Doc Cop, as he liked to call her. The diagnosis would be the same. Yes, drinking was the weakness, and he was doing his best in that area.

A park bench near the entrance to the Town Hall blended in with the surroundings. Some privacy. Good place to think. He passed a man holding a large placard advising the end was near, and we needed to repent. Jack wasn’t sure if such an activity was a positive or a negative. The man appeared to be largely ignored. That ignorance might change if that thing remained in the sky, but he doubted it would hang around. It might generate some brief excitement, and that would be about it. Man had everything under control—or so we were told to believe. The Russians or the Americans would blow it out of the way if it caused any threat. False trust? Maybe.

He wiped some leaves from the seat and sat down. What the police officers involved in the shooting were going through lingered in his mind. It was hard for the public to understand, but protective mechanisms kicked in when a man charged at you with a knife. He’d had to deal with a similar scenario once, which was why the good doc wanted to see him.

The half-illuminated moon showed through a gap between two large buildings, its greyness a contrast against a clear blue sky, although clouds were moving in. The bright orange dot in the sky was no longer there, hidden by the sun in the same way as the stars. He was curious about the dot in the sky. Perhaps the online world would tell him more. He reached for his phone, then changed his mind. The research could wait. The idea now was to switch off.

Some people enjoyed checking out the quirks of passers-by, but that had long gone from his repertoire of relaxation techniques. He’d been taught how to read people, to watch for those body movements that may indicate an untruth. Sometimes he just wanted to watch people through normal eyes, not through detective eyes. But that was hard to do.

He glanced around, his eyes settling on a man in long camouflaged khaki shorts, an orange polo shirt, and a matching baseball cap perched on his head. His goatee resembled one he might expect to see on a goat, except it had a tinge of blue dyed through it. Cath mentioned some connection between goatees and the devil which led to a stereotype about the kind of men who grew goatees. Was this dude an evil person? No. One can’t judge or make assumptions.

But his glasses caught Jack’s attention. They were tinted a strange colour, a colour he couldn’t explain, an unnatural colour. Now the clouds had moved in there was hardly any glare, but the UV rays were still there so Jack understood why the guy was still wearing the glasses. But the tinting mystified him.

The man would occasionally reach into a backpack at his feet and pull out what looked like product samples. But he was being selective about whom he handled the samples to. What was his sampling process? What was the selection criteria? Whoever this man worked for wouldn’t be too happy, as very few samples were being handed out. Or was the guy just being picky? If so, why?

Jack struggled to work out the pattern. His intuition was stewing.

One of his work companions, Sally-Anne Richmond, came out from the bus station stairwell and headed in the direction of the orange man. He spotted her and charged towards her with excited vigour. Sally leaned back, somewhat startled, but took what the man offered and then watched as he rushed off.

The scene resembled the achievement of some kind of conquest. Maybe it was the last treat in orange man’s bag, and he’d reached some kind of company utopia.

Sally walked off. She wore a blue flora dress and a pair of runners—her walking shoes. She was one attractive lady, even with the apparel mismatch. She worked in the call centre, and they’d often bump into each other at the coffee place favoured by most staff at police headquarters. Her greeting always came with a smile that sometimes had him wondering if there was something behind it. Or was he only fooling himself? Being separated made him vulnerable and his mind enjoyed playing tricks. He’d been giving himself pep talks in front of the mirror lately. You’re a good-looking man, Jack.