I am Luc of the Street

The Rookie

In the DRPJ, you’re considered a rookie until you serve five years. Five. Maybe, if you take a bullet before that, they’ll give you a Get Out of Rookie Status Early Pass. Me, I was never considered a rookie because I served my time on the streets. I would have liked a rookie period; it might have taken the pressure off, given me a chance to ask questions, make a few mistakes. But I had more experience with crime and violence than guys with ten years on the force, so they threw me in the deep end and said, "Walk on water."

I was slated for the BRI right out of the academy, but I balked. I wanted to get my feet wet first, in vice. And let's face it: there's nothing worse than some snip of a kid zooming up the ladder past guys working their asses off for years. I wanted to make friends on the force, you know? I had to pay my dues.

Fifi is still a rookie. He was put on the fast track, too, because he has friends in high places. But he doesn't want to pay his dues, doesn't care if he makes friends; his ambition is all. He struts around like he owns the place and would never admit to what he doesn't know.

I feel sorry for him.

When I look at Fifi, I see a scared man under extreme pressure. His father was Jacques Poliveau, Internal Affairs, and it's clear Fifi's course is being charted for him. Including a stint with me. But he hasn't been put on my team to learn; he's been put here to shine—shine, or else. That's too bad. If they'd let Fifi be the rookie he is, he'd end up twice the cop—and liked by his peers. Instead, he wraps himself in an arrogant, uptight, know-it-all shell while he goes it alone. I know what it's like to go it alone, which is why I feel sorry for him.

Being a rookie is hard enough, not being allowed to be one is much harder.

Another One

4 a.m. The killer made another point, with another victim. This time, in front of the treasury building. It takes nerves of steel to leave a body in plain sight in a public place, albeit in the middle of the night. So far, he's outplaying me and I don't like it.

This one got to me. I don't know why. When I saw the victim—female—I came unglued. I can't explain it; I've seen female victims before. I don't know what happened to me. But when I held her tiny hand to examine it, I felt a wall tumbling down on me. My chest tightened. I couldn't breathe.

Of course, wouldn't you know, the one person who saw it happen was Franck Poliveau. Of all people—him. When the wall hit me, I stood up and spun around, and careened right into him. We locked eyes for an instant. He saw inside me. He saw too much. Now he looks at me funny.

Anyway, I was right about this being the case of my career. Looks like we have a serial killer.

Lieutenant Obnoxious

When Lieutenant Poliveau (AKA Fifi) calls me "Sir," it sounds an awful lot like "asshole." And every time he does it, it's like he's flicked open a switchblade. He's always challenging my authority; he thinks I don't deserve it.

Fifi's ambitious, a political animal; he knows how to play the game. And he's the divisional commissioner's wet dream: clean cut, eager, by-the-book. The exact opposite of me. Where I see individualism and creativity, he sees roguery and unpredictability. I am a daily reminder of everything he despises—as he is for me. 

Still, sometimes when I look into Fifi's eyes, I see something familiar. Something kindred. Maybe it's that we're both unapologetic about who we are, or that we aren't afraid to speak our minds. Or maybe it's something else: a fire in the belly; a secret desire that drives us. I wonder if he sees it, too, and that's why he's so obnoxious. He's lashing out at the me in him.

A Headache Named Fifi

Poliveau. Franck. Lieutenant. Just hearing the name makes the skin on the back of my neck tighten. Ass. Pain. In The.

Thing is, I brought this headache on myself when I brought Poliveau on my team. He was with the first-responders who arrived at the Seine murder scene. I saw he was sharp, and I needed an extra pair of hands, so I took him on—in spite of his being smug and uptight. I figured it was just inexperience that made him self-righteous, so, to take him down a peg, I gave him the nickname "Fifi" then set out to school him.

I thought it would amuse me. I was wrong.

Turns out, Fifi's the offspring of a man from Internal Affairs, which explains his sense of entitlement, and that he's a by-the-book fusspot. I can feel his eyes on me while I work—scrutinizing, judging, questioning. Taking notes. I have a feeling I've just inherited my own personal Internal Affairs. I better be a good boy.

Moudie's not at all happy about Fifi coming on board. I have to keep an extra firm grip on his leash these days. He's very protective of his number-two status, and Fifi's ambition is obvious—always the first to run to the lab or volunteer ideas, especially when the chief is around. But Moudie shouldn't feel threatened. It's me Fifi seems to be gunning for. 

I should hate the kid, but strangely, I don't. That's the real reason for my headache. He has qualities I like—he's unflinching, sure of himself; he speaks his mind. And even though he's an uptight prig, he's unapologetic about it. It's hard to dislike someone that forthright. At least he declares himself openly; I can deal with that. Fifi is just young. A few more years on the job and he'll learn how much of life falls outside his little rule book. He's got the stuff to be a great detective—shrewd, thorough, relentless. He just needs to get out of his way. And mine.

Death as a Cure for Boredom

The last three weeks have been like crawling through a desert, parched and desperate. JP hasn't been around, and I haven't had a case in weeks and weeks. Endless days droning on. Clocking in, clocking out. Coming home to an empty house. I've been dying of boredom, and feeling useless.

Then someone left a gift on my doorstep.

I got the call around 3:30 in the morning. The body of a middle-aged male was found on the embankment near Pont St. Michel—right below police headquarters. Balls, huh? No sign of struggle. No blood. The site was completely undisturbed. Someone had laid him out all nice and neat, right at our feet. And laid down a challenge with him.

Yeah, this was going to be a good one.

Unfortunately, it was chaos when I got to the scene. Along with the prosecutor, there were two groups of investigators: my team, and some first responders headed up by a green-gilled pretty boy. He wouldn't yield the investigation and people were trampling all over, potentially destroying what little evidence there was. I ran down to the embankment like a madman and demanded the site be cleared. You should have seen the look this uptight kid gave me—all smug in his jacket and tie, with his shiny loafers. You know the type: two years out of the academy and he thinks he knows more than a twenty-year veteran. "Poliveau, Franck, Lieutenant," was how junior announced himself, holding his badge in my face. Sure, I took a look at his badge. Then I sent Lieutenant Shiny Shoes and his team promptly to the sidelines to watch the experts work.

The site was immaculate, really. Not much to bag or tag. The victim's wallet was missing, but his expensive watch and jewelry were intact. I found a scrap of paper in his vest pocket, and half a fresh cigarette he was saving for later. Poor guy. Later never came.

The real evidence was the man himself. No obvious sign of foul play—yet there he was. Someone is using him to make a point. My job is figuring out what the point is.

Looks like I won't be bored anymore.