Chapter 15 : The Cop's Eye
The CCPD precinct smelled like old coffee and desperation.
I arrived at 2:15 PM—fifteen minutes early, enough to project punctuality without appearing eager. The front desk sergeant directed me to the detective bullpen on the second floor, and I climbed stairs that probably hadn't been renovated since the building was constructed.
Joe West's desk occupied a corner position near the windows. Prime real estate in a police station—he'd earned his place through years of service.
The desk itself told a story. Family photos mixed with case files. A coffee mug that said "World's Okayest Dad" in faded letters. Notes pinned to a corkboard in handwriting too cramped to read from a distance.
This was a man who'd given his life to his work and his family in roughly equal measure. Someone who valued both justice and love, sometimes struggling to balance them.
Someone who caught liars for a living.
"Mr. Griffin." Joe rose from his chair, extending his hand. His grip was firm and measuring, the handshake of someone cataloguing every detail. "Thanks for coming down."
"Detective West. Barry speaks highly of you."
"He speaks highly of everyone. It's a character flaw." Joe gestured to the chair across from his desk. "Sit. Coffee?"
"Please."
He poured two cups from a carafe that had probably been sitting for hours. The coffee was exactly as terrible as I'd expected—bitter, stale, with the consistency of motor oil.
I drank it without complaint.
"So." Joe settled back in his chair, posture casual but eyes sharp. "Security consultant. Interesting line of work."
"It has its moments."
"I pulled your file. Military background, honorable discharge, good references from private sector clients." He set down his coffee cup with deliberate precision. "Clean record. Almost too clean, for someone who spent eight years in combat zones."
"I was good at my job."
"Or good at not getting caught."
The accusation hung in the air between us. Joe's eyes never left my face, reading every microexpression, cataloguing every response.
"Both, probably." I matched his steady gaze. "Military teaches you to cover your tracks. But it also teaches you what lines not to cross."
"And what lines are those?"
"The ones that matter." I set down my own coffee cup. "I'm not a saint, Detective. Nobody who's served in the places I served comes back one. But I know the difference between necessary violence and cruelty. Between survival and predation."
Lies wrapped in truth. The best kind.
Joe studied me for a long moment. Whatever he was looking for, he didn't seem to find it—or didn't find enough of it to act on.
"How'd you meet Caitlin?"
The change of topic was deliberate. Attack from a different angle.
"Jitters. We were both looking for a quiet place to work. Struck up a conversation about coffee quality." Truth. "She mentioned STAR Labs, I mentioned security consulting. Professional interests aligned." Also truth. "The personal stuff came after."
"And you just happened to be interested in metahuman security?"
"I was in a coma for nine months, Detective. Particle accelerator explosion. When I woke up, the world had people who could walk through walls and shoot fire from their hands." I shrugged. "Professional curiosity seemed natural."
Joe's expression flickered—something like recognition. He'd dealt with the accelerator's aftermath, knew what it had created, understood the profound strangeness of living in a world where physics was merely a suggestion.
"The explosion." His voice softened slightly. "That must have been disorienting."
"Still is, some days." More truth than I'd intended to share. "But I'm adapting."
The interview continued for another twenty minutes.
Joe asked about my clients, my methodology, my opinions on various security protocols. I answered with carefully calibrated honesty—enough truth to seem genuine, enough vagueness to avoid specific lies that could be disproven.
We discussed Barry briefly—Joe's pride in his foster son was obvious, as was his protective instinct. Anyone who wanted to be part of Barry's orbit had to pass through Joe West first.
I was attempting exactly that.
Around 2:45, a younger detective passed by the desk. Blond, clean-cut, the kind of conventionally handsome that suggested good genes and regular exercise.
"Joe, the Garrick file you wanted is—" He noticed me and stopped. "Sorry, didn't realize you were with someone."
"Eddie Thawne, meet Harry Griffin. Security consultant working with STAR Labs."
Eddie extended his hand with an easy smile. "The guy Caitlin's been talking about. Nice to finally put a face to the name."
I shook his hand, studying his face for any sign of the fate I knew awaited him.
This man dies stopping the Reverse-Flash. Saves the timeline by shooting himself. A hero's end for someone who never got to be a hero.
"Good to meet you," I said. "You're Joe's partner?"
"And Iris's boyfriend, which makes me brave or stupid depending on who you ask." Eddie's smile carried self-deprecating humor. "Joe's been threatening me with a shotgun for three years."
"Only metaphorically," Joe added. "Mostly."
The exchange was easy, warm, the dynamic of people who'd become family through proximity rather than blood. Eddie Thawne was thoroughly decent—a good cop, a good man, someone who deserved better than the fate waiting for him.
I could change that, I thought. If I'm positioned right, if I play this correctly, I could save him.
The thought surprised me. I'd been thinking in terms of personal gain, power acquisition, survival strategy. Saving Eddie Thawne offered none of those benefits.
But I wanted to do it anyway.
Eddie left with the file. Joe walked me toward the exit.
"Your background checks out," he said as we reached the stairs. "Military, private sector, references. All clean."
"But?"
"But I've been doing this a long time." Joe stopped walking, turned to face me. "Twenty years of catching killers, finding liars, reading people who didn't want to be read. And something about you..."
He didn't finish the sentence. Didn't need to.
"If you figure out what," I said, "let me know."
Joe almost smiled. The expression didn't reach his eyes.
"I'll do that."
We shook hands one final time. His grip lingered a moment longer than necessary—a final assessment, a last chance to catch something he'd missed.
Then he released me, and I walked down the stairs into the Central City afternoon.
The drive home gave me time to process.
Joe West wasn't satisfied. His instincts had pinged on something—maybe my too-calm responses, maybe the way I'd handled his questions, maybe just the indefinable wrongness that came from being watched by someone who understood deception.
But he had nothing concrete. No evidence. No actionable suspicion. Just a feeling that something didn't add up.
I needed to give him no reason to pursue that feeling.
No hunting, I decided. Not until the investigation cools down. Not until Joe's attention moves elsewhere.
The system registered my decision with something like disapproval.
[EXTRACTION ACTIVITY: PAUSED] [WARNING: EXTENDED INACTIVITY MAY REDUCE SYNC RATES]
I ignored the warning. Some risks weren't worth taking, even for power.
My phone buzzed as I pulled into my apartment complex. A text from Caitlin: How did it go with Joe?
I typed back: Survived the interrogation. Barely. Dinner to celebrate?
Her response came quickly: Tomorrow night. I'm picking the place this time.
I smiled at the screen. The expression felt foreign on my face—genuine emotion rather than calculated performance.
That's the danger, I reminded myself. These connections make you vulnerable. Give them weapons to use against you.
But as I climbed the stairs to my apartment, I couldn't bring myself to care.
Some vulnerabilities were worth having.
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