Chapter 2: The Detective's Routine
The precinct smelled like burnt coffee and old paperwork.
I walked through the doors at seven-thirty, badge clipped to my belt, and immediately wanted to turn around. Not because of fear—the host body's muscle memory carried me forward automatically—but because I was about to playact being someone I barely understood.
"Colen!" Detective Morrison looked up from his desk, grinning. "You look like shit. Late night?"
The Profile Generator activated without me thinking about it.
[ **ANALYZING: DETECTIVE MORRISON** ]
[ **COMPETITIVE JEALOUSY: 67%** ]
[ **GENUINE FRIENDSHIP: 41%** ]
[ **SEEKS STATUS VALIDATION** ]
"So he likes me but resents me. Great."
"Just couldn't sleep," I said, managing a tired smile. "You know how it is."
"I really don't." Morrison laughed and went back to his computer. "Some of us actually close cases."
The jab landed light, almost friendly, but the System's reading didn't lie. He was competitive. I filed that away.
Detective Hayes sat two desks over, older guy with gray at his temples and permanent frown lines. He nodded at me. "Colen. Captain wants case updates by noon."
[ **ANALYZING: DETECTIVE HAYES** ]
[ **GENUINE RESPECT: 74%** ]
[ **PROTECTIVE INSTINCT: MODERATE** ]
[ **SEES POTENTIAL IN YOU** ]
That one surprised me. Hayes actually liked me—liked the original Tedd, anyway. Thought he had potential. The warmth in that assessment felt strange, like I was stealing someone else's relationship.
"I am stealing someone else's relationship. I'm wearing his life like a jacket."
I pushed the thought down and sat at my desk. The computer took three tries to log in before I remembered the password. Tedd's memories were there, accessible, but they didn't flow naturally yet. Everything required conscious effort.
Case files filled the screen. Minor thefts, domestic disputes, one assault case that went to the DA last week. Nothing impressive. Nothing that would make me stand out. The original Tedd had been competent, reliable, and utterly forgettable.
I couldn't afford to be forgettable.
The morning passed in a blur of paperwork and phone calls. I followed up on an open burglary case, reviewed evidence photos, and managed to sound like I knew what I was doing. The System helped—I could scan colleagues during conversations, watching their stress levels spike when they lied or their confidence markers rise when they felt certain about something.
By lunch, my energy sat at 54/100. The constant low-level scanning was draining, but the practice was working. The Profile Generator's accuracy had ticked up to 61%.
"Hey, Colen!" Morrison appeared beside my desk, holding his jacket. "Few of us are grabbing lunch at Sal's. You in?"
I almost said yes. Then I caught the micro-expression—the tightness around his eyes, the forced casualness in his posture.
[ **ANALYZING: MORRISON** ]
[ **INVITATION GENUINE: 38%** ]
[ **SEEKING INFORMATION/GOSSIP: 79%** ]
[ **ENERGY: 52/100** ]
"He wants to pump me for information about something. Hard pass."
"Can't," I said, gesturing at the computer. "Captain wants updates, and I'm behind. Rain check?"
Morrison's smile tightened just slightly. "Sure. Next time."
He left with two other detectives, and I exhaled slowly. The lying was easier than I'd expected. Maybe because I'd technically been a detective in the host's life, or maybe because the System let me see exactly what people wanted to hear.
Hayes walked past, paused, looked at me for a long moment.
"You've been different today," he said.
My heart rate spiked. "Different how?"
"Sharper." He tilted his head, studying me. "More focused. It's good. Keep it up."
He walked away before I could respond. I stared at his back, mind racing. Had I been too obvious? The System showed his respect levels were still high, no suspicion markers, but the observation rattled me.
"I need to be more careful. Can't let anyone notice the change."
The afternoon dragged on. I reviewed the Vanderfeld case file, memorizing details. Diplomatic residence, high-end neighborhood. Security cameras were disabled—professional job. Art stolen included two paintings and a sculpture, combined value around three million. Documents taken were never specified publicly, which meant they were sensitive.
The case screamed international implications. Exactly the kind of thing CBI would handle if given reason to investigate.
My phone buzzed. Text from an unknown number.
Unknown: Package delivered to your apartment. Enjoy! - Uncle Richard
I blinked at the screen. The gift. He'd mentioned it yesterday—or technically, the day I'd woken up in this world.
At five o'clock, I clocked out and drove home. The apartment was exactly as I'd left it, except for the large box sitting outside my door. I dragged it inside, locked the door, and opened it.
A watch sat in velvet packaging. Omega Seamaster, retail price around eight thousand. Beneath it, an envelope.
The check inside was for thirty thousand dollars.
"Jesus Christ," I whispered.
My phone rang. I didn't recognize the number, but Tedd's memories supplied the name: Uncle Richard.
"Tedd!" His voice was warm, booming, the kind of man who laughed easily. "Did you get the package?"
"I did. Uncle Richard, this is too much—"
"Nonsense! You made detective last year, and I never properly celebrated. Consider this my delayed congratulations." He paused. "You sound tired. Are they working you too hard?"
The genuine concern in his voice made my chest tighten. This man cared about me—about Tedd. The original Tedd. And I was an imposter wearing his nephew's face.
"Just adjusting to the workload," I managed. "Thank you for the gift. Really. It's incredible."
"You deserve it. Your father would be proud." A pause. "Call your Aunt Marie sometime. She misses hearing from you."
We talked for another ten minutes. Small talk, family updates, his latest business venture. He never mentioned the money explicitly, like sending thirty grand was as casual as buying lunch. By the time I hung up, I understood the family dynamic.
Tedd Colen had money. Real money, the kind that opened doors. And more importantly, a family that genuinely cared, even if he kept them at arm's length.
"This changes things. I have resources. I can move independently if I need to."
The rest of the evening, I practiced with the System. I pulled up old precinct security footage on my laptop—mundane stuff, detectives walking through hallways, suspects being booked. I scanned each face, trying to read body language and stress levels.
[ **ANALYZING: SUSPECT (FOOTAGE - 3 DAYS OLD)** ]
[ **CONFIDENCE: 58%** ]
[ **STRESS: 89%** ]
[ **DECEPTION: HIGH - AVOIDING EYE CONTACT, CLOSED POSTURE** ]
[ **ENERGY: 47/100** ]
I watched the footage three more times, focusing on different details. The suspect's hand movements. The way his jaw clenched when asked about an alibi. The System adjusted its readings each time, accuracy improving incrementally.
By the fourth viewing, the profile sharpened.
[ **CONFIDENCE: 64%** ]
[ **STRESS: 87%** ]
[ **DECEPTION: CONFIRMED - SPECIFIC TELLS IDENTIFIED** ]
[ **LIE DETECTED: ALIBI STATEMENT FALSE** ]
[ **ENERGY: 41/100** ]
The headache was building again, a dull pressure behind my eyes. I closed the laptop and leaned back on the couch. The energy drain was real, and pushing through it would only make things worse.
But the improvement was measurable. Four percent accuracy gain in one session. The System was learning my patterns, or I was learning its language. Either way, the tool was getting sharper.
I thought about Patrick Jane. About how he'd read crime scenes like novels, seeing connections no one else could. About how he'd manipulated people with ease, playing them like instruments.
I had a System that could do that, with numbers and data to back it up. But Jane had something I didn't: experience. Decades of it. And the charisma to make people forgive his manipulation.
"I'm not Patrick Jane. I can't be. But I can be someone valuable enough that they need me."
The Vanderfeld case files sat on my coffee table. I picked them up, flipping through pages I'd half-memorized. Three months cold. No leads. The perfect opportunity.
Tomorrow, I'd start working the case. Unofficially at first, testing the System's capabilities on real investigation work. If I could crack it—or even just find a solid lead—it would be my ticket to CBI.
[ **ENERGY: 38/100** ]
The warning appeared in my peripheral vision.
[ **LOW ENERGY DETECTED** ]
[ **REST RECOMMENDED TO AVOID PHYSICAL CONSEQUENCES** ]
I didn't argue. The migraine was already forming, a spike of pain that promised to get worse if ignored. I went to bed early, the watch and check still sitting on the kitchen counter. Thirty thousand dollars. Just because Uncle Richard felt like it.
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