43. Joining the Ranks

A sunlit morning.

Dressed in a black suit, Dean drove his SUV to the Las Vegas Central Police Department.

The building was a modern, imposing structure that could accommodate hundreds, its grandeur evident in every detail. Under the canopies on either side, police SUVs and patrol motorcycles were parked in neat rows.

The good public order of Las Vegas was maintained by this formidable force.

“Hey, Dean, I know you—are you a hero for a minute or a coward for a lifetime?”

A stout, middle-aged officer leaned against a parking lot pillar, wiping cream from his hands. He strode over, gripped Dean’s hand warmly, the LVPD badge on his chest gleaming in the sunlight.

“I’m Thomas Allen. Welcome to Vegas PD.” The man looked at him with concern. “Shouldn’t you be on summer break? Why aren’t you out traveling or relaxing?”

“Holden Ford asked me to come pick up the pistol I lost at Lake Mead.”

“Oh…” The man’s expression sobered, a hint of respect appearing. Then his eyes lit up, and he bypassed Dean to approach the imposing SUV parked behind him. He caressed the driver’s side door with a kind of reverence, as if it were not cold metal but something as dear as a wife.

Dean felt a chill crawl up his scalp.

It was just a hulking white hunk of metal, a means of transportation—was such obsession necessary?

“If I’m not mistaken, this beauty is the new release this year, right? Third-generation Ford Bronco, luxury leisure SUV.”

“Good eye,” Dean replied.

“Mind if I ask, how much did it cost?”

“All in, about thirteen grand,” Dean answered offhandedly.

A used car or another model would have been far cheaper—two or three thousand would suffice, and a new compact could be had for eight. But he preferred this versatile new vehicle. Its advantages were obvious: spacious enough to hide weapons, powerful and sturdy for rough terrain and long journeys without stress.

He’d spent five thousand of his savings and advanced eight thousand of his band’s share for the year to get it. Now, he had just over a thousand dollars left to his name.

“That cheap?”

“I know someone—got a discount.”

“I see. Be careful, though. Gas prices have shot up in recent years. This beast guzzles money—nowhere near as economical as a Japanese car.” The man beckoned him. “Come on, I’ll take you to Holden.”

...

Inside the police station.

Dean, holding his briefcase, followed Thomas down the corridor, glancing around with curiosity. Compared to ordinary office buildings, the station’s layout was more intricate, each floor divided into countless zones.

There were spacious communal work areas, interrogation rooms, private offices, even cells for temporarily holding suspects.

In the central open office, officers made calls and filled out reports. Several handcuffed detainees—some tattooed, some dressed like vagrants—sat at tables.

Not all the officers wore the standard-issue, drab khaki uniforms. Many sported padded-shoulder suits, or had shed their jackets to reveal shirts and ties.

Most were white, followed by black officers, with a smattering of Asian faces.

Perhaps half the officers, due to their diets and irregular hours, were overweight and out of shape. Yet among the younger cops, many were muscular and sharp-eyed, sleeves stretched tight over bulging arms—a clear sign of regular workouts. Their gazes said they weren’t to be trifled with.

“Thomas, I thought you only had a daughter—Gretchen, right? When did you get a son?” called a brown-skinned officer as he approached.

“Didn’t get much sleep last night, fried your brain?” Thomas scolded. “Don’t you recognize the hero who saved our LVPD?”

“Oh, right! I remember now—you’re that Asian kung fu kid from the news, aren’t you?”

Dean’s face darkened.

“At last I get to meet you in person. I’m Carol Krause. I’m curious—what fighting style did you use at Lake Mead to take down the gunman? Brazilian jiu-jitsu? Boxing? Or Bruce Lee’s Jeet Kune Do?”

“I used the Fist of God—otherwise known as luck,” Dean replied with a straight face.

The brown-skinned man’s antics drew over a spirited Latina officer, who greeted Dean with a warm hug and offered him a mouthwatering Mexican taco.

“Kid, thanks to you stepping up, or else the Chief would have had our brains for breakfast.”

From the first floor to the second, Dean lost count of how many officers stopped him for a handshake, a pat on the shoulder, words of thanks and encouragement. Some even left their phone numbers, telling him to call if he ever needed help.

His act of bravery had clearly earned the officers’ goodwill, but the warmth left Dean a little overwhelmed.

“Sorry, kid, these guys mean no harm.”

“I understand.”

“We’re here—Holden’s inside. I’ve got to run.”

“Bye!”

In the corner of the second floor, Dean knocked on the office door.

Creak—

The door opened. A dark-haired man poked his head out, flashed a warm grin, and shook Dean’s hand.

“Come in, have a seat. You’re a few days later than I’d expected. We need to get started.”

“You’re not surprised at all. You knew I’d come?”

Dean took the seat across from the desk and glanced around. The room was bare, little bigger than a restroom, with four white walls, a filing cabinet, a desk, and two chairs—no water cooler in sight.

“I told you, we’re cut from the same cloth. Naturally, we recognize each other. I’ve long considered you one of my own.” Holden drew a Colt M1911A1 from the drawer. “Take care of it this time—don’t lose it again.”

Dean accepted the pistol, gripping it in both hands. A familiar sense of security washed over him.

Suddenly, he tensed his arm, leveling the barrel at Holden across the desk.

Click.

He flipped off the safety, racked the slide, cocked the hammer, his expression icy and eyes cold.

“Now, Holden, still so confident?”

“Cut it out. It’s not loaded.”

Dean shrugged, letting the pistol dangle from his finger.

“Got a holster for me?”

“Here you go.”

Holden showed Dean how to properly holster the weapon.

Then, elbows on the desk, hands clasped beneath his chin, he continued, “Back to business. Congratulations. By coming to see me, you’ve made a wise decision—chosen a legitimate, upright path.”

“With me, your past mistakes are wiped clean. A fresh start.”

“The deaths of Bob and his son have nothing to do with me. I’m not here to confess or surrender. I just want a chance to hone myself,” Dean replied as he stowed the Colt in his briefcase.

“Fine. Since you’re here, the rest doesn’t matter,” Holden nodded.

Dean went on, “After the Lake Mead incident, I realized how chaotic America is. I need to learn more self-defense skills. You mentioned LVPD’s volunteer program.”

“I looked into it. The part-time shifts are flexible—I can help out when I have time. I can train my fighting and shooting skills, and earn a small stipend.”

“Most importantly, the application is simple. With my clean background and the medal for bravery I just received, all I need is a file at the precinct to get the job!”

Holden shook his head with a smile. “It’s not as thrilling as you think. Most of the time, volunteers just drive around Vegas on patrol—tedious, time-killing work. So, I’ve got some special arrangements for you.”

“Special arrangements?” Dean asked, puzzled. “Holden, aren’t FBI agents usually busy, traveling the country for cases? But you’ve been at LVPD over a month and plan to stay? You still have time to mentor me?”

Dean couldn’t wrap his head around Holden’s role at the Vegas PD.

“Curiosity is the ladder of progress. I’ll satisfy yours,” Holden replied, leaning back in his chair.

“I’m from the Behavioral Science Unit at Quantico, Virginia. My previous work involved interviewing infamous murderers in prisons—like Son of Sam.”

“I spoke with these serious offenders, recorded their methods, and developed crime-solving techniques. I’d travel to police departments across the country to lecture, and sometimes help crack murder cases.”

Holden paused, then admitted frankly, “But like you, I dislike rigid rules and prefer taking risks outside the lines. I also can’t stand political games. I offended two senior bosses at the BSU and got ‘exiled’ to Las Vegas for a ‘vacation.’”

“I have to stay at least a year.”

Dean understood.

Interviewing killers—so the man had spent so much time with them that he’d turned a little unhinged himself?

Dean glanced around the spartan office.

“The LVPD doesn’t think much of you?”

“Don’t get the wrong idea. The Chief values me highly and gives me a lot of freedom. I chose this room myself—simple surroundings sharpen the mind. When the BSU was first founded, we spent years in a windowless basement,” Holden said, not without nostalgia.

“All right, Mr. Spartan, what special plans do you have for me?”

Holden’s eyes glowed, making Dean uneasy.

“You’re the biggest surprise I’ve found in Vegas—a wild stallion with incredible potential. While your peers are thinking about sleeping with more pretty girls, you’re already calculating how to discreetly take down more criminals—and you’ve got the results to prove it.”

Dean’s eyelid twitched.

“That’s not a funny joke.”

Holden went on, “Call it a joke if you like. To keep you from going astray, I’ll personally involve you in case investigations so you learn the rules and methods.”

“And for your mental health, after certain cases I’ll also provide counseling. I hope you’ll answer honestly and openly—don’t be so guarded with me.”

He looked up, eyes sincere.

“Dean, would you like to join me in this great undertaking?”

“So this job is essentially still as a volunteer?” Dean asked.

“Right—not a full cop, very flexible hours, just basic rules to follow. I’ve spoken to the Chief—you won’t have to patrol, just work under me. Don’t worry, I’ll consider your schoolwork, and you can quit anytime.”

Dean thought for half a minute, then hesitated, “Sounds good, but do I have to be your guinea pig and expose my privacy?”

“Any requests?”

Dean narrowed his eyes, a glint of gold flickering.

“This tough job isn’t unpaid labor, is it? What’s the pay?”

“Uh…” Holden’s confident smile faltered. He swiftly wiped a bead of sweat from his brow.

“A young man shouldn’t care too much about money. That’s shallow, and could seriously hinder your future. You should focus on what you can learn from the work.”

“Seriously? I’m not interested in working for free.”

Dean sighed, turning to leave without a backward glance.

“I’ll get you an allowance! Volunteers get a modest stipend.”

Holden jumped up, pressing his hands to the desk, calling after him.

“If I can’t get it officially, I’ll pay you myself—three hundred a month.”

“You should have said so earlier.” Dean sat back down, crossing his legs.

He had just over a thousand dollars left—enough for now—but he wanted to see this pretentious man brought down a notch.

“So, what now?”

“First, let’s get you registered as a volunteer.” Holden pulled a briefcase from under the desk and tucked it under his arm. “Then, I’ve got a case that’s just developed. Come take a look with me.”