"Name?"
"Felix."
"Age?"
"Twenty-three. Wait—don't you already know that? Why even ask?"
"Procedure. You understand."
Same conference room as last time. Same seat. Felix sat waiting for Internal Affairs—only this time, the lead investigator wasn't Steve, but Sam, the same one who'd been here for the earlier inquiry.
Felix asked, curious, "Why you? Where's Steve?"
"He didn't want to see you. So they sent me instead." Sam's tone was light, almost amused. "He's young, thin-skinned. Me? I'm older. I don't care."
Fair enough. These were the people who made their living doing work no one thanked them for. If they folded easily, no one would dare do Internal Affairs.
Still, Sam's easy grin didn't fool him. Smile like that? Probably a fox behind it.
"Alright," Felix said, sitting up. "Let's start. I'll cooperate. Ask away."
Sam closed the folder. "No need. We already know the sequence of events. You had justifiable cause to fire your weapon. Nothing more to ask."
Felix eyed him. You're not holding something back, are you, Sam?
Sam caught the look and smiled. "We do internal reviews, yes. But we're not in the business of framing our own to get promoted. No conspiracies here."
"When do I go back to work?"
"Even without misconduct, you'll be placed on administrative leave. Three firearm discharges in such a short time—protocol says we prevent possible psychological strain. You'll take a few days, see the department's designated psych evaluator. Once they sign off, you're cleared for duty."
Leaving with the evaluator's business card in hand, Felix was met by his team sergeant, Carles, who offered a few words of encouragement. As long as he passed the assessment, he'd be back on duty soon. The cruiser was being kept for him—no one else would touch it.
Felix appreciated that. Some things—like your assigned car—weren't meant to be shared.
He strapped on his backup sidearm. The service weapon from the incident had to be surrendered, but spares didn't. In Los Angeles, guns were everywhere—collecting all an officer's firearms was pointless.
He tried calling Mark for a drink. Mark, mid-patrol, hung up on him.
Tried Frank—he was on night shift, asleep, told Felix to find someone else.
Felix scratched his head. Aside from those two, he didn't really know anyone here. Big city, few friends.
He called the evaluator. They had an opening now.
The address was downtown—Felix had never been.
Compared to Temple City, downtown was a different world. In Temple, the tallest building was a seven-story apartment block; most were single- or two-story homes or offices, no different from a suburban sprawl in China.
Downtown was dense with towers, bustling with tourists shopping and wandering. But turn off the main drag and the scene flipped—rows of tents, trash everywhere, homeless stretched out in the sun, some behaving in ways you couldn't explain.
Thankfully, the clinic was in an office building on a busy street, with foot patrol officers nearby. Otherwise, Felix wouldn't have dared park—half-expecting his car to vanish if he did.
The suite turned out to be a large, well-appointed mental health centre. Minimalist décor, beige lounge chairs—two recliners for face-to-face conversation, a green plant between them, a small wine cabinet, a bar counter with high stools. Artwork on the walls—expensive-looking, though he couldn't name the style.
It had clearly been designed to put clients at ease. Felix felt it working.
A striking blonde woman walked in. "Hello. I'm Dr. Mary Burr, your evaluator today. Call me Mary."
They shook hands. "Felix. Nice place you've got here."
"This is the centre's facility—I also have a private practice. You could visit that, if needed." She gestured to a recliner. "Sit, relax. We'll just talk. If you're carrying, please set your firearm on the table."
Felix unholstered and set it aside, settling into the recliner. Comfortable.
"If you like it, you can buy one—about ten thousand dollars."
Highway robbery. He'd pass.
Mary smiled. "Something to drink? Tea?"
"Coffee. Instant's fine—don't like American drip, too bitter."
"Alright."
When she returned, coffee in hand, she said, "From your file, I thought you'd prefer tea."
Felix shrugged. "Most Chinese don't have the time. They work. What they need is something to keep them awake."
"Sounds exhausting."
"That's the baseline."
She didn't press it. "Let's begin. Your file shows you've been a police officer for a very short time, yet in that span, every time you've fired your weapon, someone's died. You think that's normal?"
"Yes. I was working. Every shot was necessary. If they died, it was bad luck—or the rules that killed them."
By "rules," he meant the unwritten patrol ethos: don't draw unless you must; if you draw, commit—empty the magazine. Not "proportionate force," not "control the scene"—finality. Even then, plenty of suspects survived. Without it, many more would.
Mary jotted notes. "Procedurally sound, yes. But emotionally—you seem… calm. Many officers are shaken afterwards. Some have repeated breakdowns."
"Probably because I know I wasn't wrong. I did the right thing. If you're doing the right thing, why collapse?"
"No guilt at all for the dead?"
Felix considered. "My first shooting was a homeless man fighting an officer, grabbing his gun, trying to fire. I don't regret killing him. My colleagues and the bystanders are lives too. If I hadn't acted, an officer could've been crippled or killed. Should I feel guilty then, to their families? I'd do the same again—because my colleagues are good people. They deserve to live."
"The second? A man who had just murdered a homeless person, trying to rob him, and had already killed three others. Should I feel guilty for stopping a killer who felt none himself?"
"The third? A man who'd butchered his own parents, charging me with a knife. If I were a civilian, shooting him would need no guilt. Why would the badge change that?"
"Are good men supposed to stand there under the gun, just to be blamed for surviving?"
Mary looked up. "I'm a psychologist, not Internal Affairs. And… are you sure you're a good man?"
Felix smiled awkwardly. "Not entirely. I've got plenty of faults."
"Let's hope the police don't arrest you."
He almost laughed. Cops arrest cops? Then he remembered—jurisdictions here didn't overlap. It could happen.
They talked a while about his time at UCLA and UCI.
Mary was, undeniably, beautiful—and she knew how to listen. By the time they wrapped up, Felix felt lighter.
She ended the session after an hour. The report would go to his station in two or three days.
Felix left downtown for Chinatown, drawn by a Sichuan place—Lion Pavilion—he'd read about online. The food lived up to the praise.
With time to spare, he wandered. Since moving to LA, he'd never visited the city's landmark Chinatown—almost absurd in hindsight.
The first thing that caught his eye were the lanterns strung overhead, festive against the sky. Many shopfronts had small flags with English or traditional Chinese names, advertising goods or services.
One flag read Great Qing Goods Centre and Far East Grand Arch. He went in, curious—only to find shelves of Yiwu-made trinkets from China. Figures.
The architecture was unique—ground floors like any store, but upper levels shaped with ornate southern-style eaves, each building different. One bar had even built itself into a tower. Creative, he had to admit.