Officer Kevin Carlisle had been working for the police department for three years and eight days when he sat down to do the crossword during his break. He knew it must be three years and eight days, since exactly one week and one day ago, the department had pitched in to buy him a cake (celebrating three years!) and a watch for Officer Baker (thanks for 25 years of service!) As he struggled over a five letter word for “tenacious” and ate a stale piece of chocolate cake, he heard the dispatcher talking to someone, and he folded his newspaper in preparation, knowing that the other two cars on patrol were already responding to calls.

“I’m sorry, Kevin,” the dispatcher said. “Some sort of accident? Someone was hit by a pole on Main Street, at any rate. Traffic control might be needed. And a victim statement, of course.”

Officer Carlisle nodded, and went to collect his patrol car, which he shared with Officer Monroe. Officer Monroe had the obnoxious habit of setting the seat too far forward and eating sunflower seeds on his shifts, and Officer Carlisle noted that it was time to vacuum again.

Some joker at the architecture firm designed the entry gate for the lot to look like a portcullis, no doubt thinking that it would look smart as it rolled briskly up to disgorge the face of the law, but in fact it usually stuck on the way up, as Officer Carlisle wearily noted when he stopped in front of the gate. He briefly considered driving through anyway, but he suspected that the bottom of the gate was just low enough to scratch his roof, so he got out to waggle the third bar from the right while pushing up, to get the gate to open the rest of the way.

Far better than the reverse; the Sergeant almost lost a prisoner once, when the gate came abruptly clattering down, nearly poleaxing the spraypaint-stained ruffian in the back seat. Fortunately, the young man was agile enough to roll aside, but the car had to be taken out of service, perforated like a stamp.

When Officer Carlisle arrived on the scene, he saw the victim lying on the ground near a utility pole, with two concerned paramedics nearby, along with an assortment of gawkers and a nervous, plump man who fluttered at the edges of the group. Officer Carlisle also saw a box, addressed to “Henry Makepeace” of “539 Lamprey Street.” He idly wondered if he would need to call a bomb disposal unit, since according to his Department of Homeland Security Anti-Terror Training, any unattended package could represent a danger, and then he wondered where the closest bomb disposal unit might be.

First, though, he needed to gain control of the situation, as he learned in the Academy.

The policeman started with the paramedics, who informed him that the victim had walked into the pole, rather than being hit by one, and that the victim’s neck might be broken, so transport to the hospital would be necessary. The plump man turned out to be Henry Makepeace, and the one who had called the police, so Officer Carlisle sensed that the scene would quickly be wrapped up, something to laugh over in the staff room, perhaps, depending on the victim’s outcome.

“It’s from my ex-girlfriend,” Makepeace said, gesturing at the box. “She’s a biologist.” He shrugged. “I don’t know what it is, but I had to go to the post office to get it, because the postman didn’t even knock, just left a package slip on the door. Lazy.”

“Ah,” Officer Carlisle said. It was a useful catchall word for those situations in which he wasn’t quite sure what to say. Yes, Officer Carlisle thought, Pete generally is lazy when it comes to the end of his route. He himself had told Pete to leave any packages for him on the porch, rather than bothering with a slip. “Or you could bring them by the police station,” he had added during that conversation, somewhat pointlessly, knowing that Pete would never go out of his way to deliver a package, even if it was for a policeman.

Meanwhile, the growing crowd needed to be dealt with, so Officer Carlisle stretched to his full height, put a hand on his nightstick, and gestured imperiously while the paramedics talked to the victim and Henry Makepeace wrung his hands by a city flowerbox. After the crowd had scattered, Officer Carlisle drifted over to Makepeace to make polite conversation while the victim was packaged for the ambulance.

“I just moved here,” Makepeace said. “It was on a whim, and the timing seemed right.”

“Ah,” Officer Carlisle said, while the victim muttered something about the box and gesticulated, until the younger paramedic told the victim to calm down. It was an unremarkable box, standard brown, with no markings other than the address, written in neat penmanship.

“What does your ex-girlfriend do,” Officer Carlisle said, out of lack of anything else to say.

“Something in biology,” he said. “I don’t really know. I never knew. I’m an insurance investigator. Arson. I don’t know anything about, you know. Lab science. Ha ha.”

“Ah,” Officer Carlisle said again, wondering what work an arson investigator would have here. The two stared off into space for a moment, before the victim became agitated and started gesturing again, arguing with the paramedics about whether or not a hospital trip was necessary. Officer Carlisle wondered if he would be forced to step in, but the paramedics seemed to succeed, after the victim weakly protested about not having insurance. While the paramedics strapped the victim to a backboard, Officer Carlisle turned to Henry Makepeace.

“It was good of you to call,” he said. “It might be nothing, but better safe than sorry, right? Some people wouldn’t take the time of day, even here. They would have just walked right by, you know?”

The victim waved at them.

“It’s fine, really,” Henry Makepeace said. “I just thought I should call, you know, to be sure.”

They watched as the victim was loaded into the ambulance, Henry Makepeace giving a tentative wave, and then, suddenly, Officer Carlisle was lying on the sidewalk, with the concerned moon-face of Henry Makepeace hovering over him.

“Are you all right? Officer? Uh…Car-lizzle,” he said, reading Officer Carlisle’s badge.

Officer Carlisle felt a bit dazed, and reflected gloomily that his freshly dry-cleaned uniform pants were now damp from the moist sidewalk.

“Carlisle. Yes,” he said, accepting the hand of Henry Makepeace. “I must have just lost my balance for some reason,” and he stood all the way up, dusting himself off. “Well then. I suppose that settles things. I guess I have your address if I need anything, yes?”

“Of course,” Henry Makepeace said, picking up the box. “Have a nice day,” and he walked north along Main Street, towards the Garden District and Lamprey Street, a sleepy cul-de-sac almost on the edge of town.

Officer Carlisle got back in his patrol car and drove back to the station to make a situation report and finish the crossword. For some reason, his ankle hurt.