Chapter 15 – One Shift for Thirty Days Off? Sergeant Sean's Leave Formula Makes Every Working Stiff Weep
Sean was officially placed on 'indefinite administrative leave' protocol, which meant his patrol shift for the day ended immediately on the spot.
However, as one of the administrative leave conditions, he was prohibited from leaving California until the investigation concluded.
So any dreams of a tropical vacation during this paid time off were naturally impossible.
He drove the familiar patrol vehicle, its engine rumbling through the sun-drenched, lazy Los Angeles streets, straight back to Western Division headquarters.
Sunlight slanted through the window, casting shifting shadows across his angular face.
The Internal Affairs office was as relaxed as ever, filled with the sporadic hum of copiers, the clack of keyboards, and the lingering aroma of Starbucks.
Sean tossed the cruiser keys onto the reception counter with a crisp metallic "clink," the motion casual and practiced.
Under the desk sergeant's watchful gaze he opened his duty locker, removing his Taser, handcuffs, pepper spray, item by item, and meticulously checked every piece of equipment over to the on-duty administrator.
The procedure was swift and efficient, yet his expression carried the relaxed satisfaction of a man facing thirty days of paid vacation.
The patrol vehicle was officially turned in, but everyone in IA knew it wouldn't be reassigned; registered specifically to Sean, it was essentially his personal ride.
Besides, this rising star's promotional trajectory was meteoric; any day now he might leapfrog into being their direct supervisor, so the clerk processing the turnover became noticeably more respectful.
In any police station, gossip always travels faster than radio traffic.
With so many units responding to today's officer-involved shooting, news that Sean had once again "earned" administrative leave had already spread like wildfire.
Walking the crowded hallway he drew constant attention—some teasing, some openly envious.
"Hey! Sean!"
A stocky detective came striding up, face showing an exaggerated, rueful grin as he slapped Sean's shoulder firmly.
"Congrats on another commendation! But you lucky bastard, you cost me a hundred bucks—I bet you'd stay clean this whole month!"
A fresh-faced young officer spotted Sean, straightened noticeably, admiration shining in his eyes, voice crisp:
"Sergeant! Enjoy your leave, sir!"
Sean couldn't recall the rookie's name—maybe a former squad member—but he politely acknowledged the offered handshake.
Passing the break room, several officers nursing coffee couldn't resist commenting.
A veteran with a Krispy Kreme clamped between his teeth called out through chewing:
"Hey, Sergeant Horace! City Hall ought to put you on hourly wages—look at you, less than twelve hours on shift and you're back on admin leave. Talk about 'efficiency'!"
Even Lieutenant Trist, head buried in case files, looked up at the commotion; seeing Sean, her sharp eyes filled with exasperation and amusement she couldn't quite hide.
She set the folder down, hands on hips, tone warmly teasing:
"Sergeant Horace, you're truly one of a kind! Other officers work 'five days on, two days off'; you? Heart-stopping 'one shift on, thirty days off'! How long has it even been?"
She raised her wrist and glanced at her Apple Watch with theatrical drama:
"Less than four hours since we last spoke—and you're 'disappearing' again?"
Faced with Trist's rapid-fire mock accusations and the surrounding laughter, Sean gave an exaggerated shrug, an innocent yet smug grin spreading as he threw up his hands in the classic "what can I do?" gesture:
"Dear Lieutenant Trist, ladies and gentlemen!"
He looked around the break room, voice theatrically resigned:
"Can I really be blamed? The city's criminals swarm to me like moths to a flame! To keep our beloved streets safe I pour my heart into it, go above and beyond—City Hall really ought to increase my 'hazard duty pay'!"
Listening to this shameless yet somehow logical "reasoning," Trist rolled her eyes dramatically,
though the corner of her mouth twitched upward betraying her amusement. She snorted, gathered her files, and tapped her desk with a pen:
"A raise? Sean, keep dreaming. Better pray the Chief hands you another Medal of Valor—that collection of yours is growing rapidly enough!"
Her good-natured jab showed she was thoroughly entertained by his audacity.
With the equipment turnover complete, the IA area's fluorescent lights buzzed overhead, the air thick with old paperwork smell and Pine-Sol.
Colleagues' looks of envy or amusement created an invisible atmosphere, but he strolled through the familiar chaos without concern.
None of them genuinely feared this uniform would be stripped from him; surviving so many 'administrative leaves' unscathed spoke volumes about his competence—and the department backing him.
Not a single sustained complaint on his record was proof enough of that.
"Oh, please!"
Sean waved a dismissive hand, a playful smirk tugging at his lips, those glittering honor medals clearly meaning little to him personally:
"Apart from blinding everyone at award ceremonies with all that polished brass, they just sit in boxes gathering dust, right?"
He paused, tone turning surprisingly genuine:
"Of course, I absolutely respect medals others earned—decorations earned facing deadly force to protect citizens. As for the trinkets from LAPD..."
he drawled with a flash of boastful nonchalance:
"Well, four already collect cobwebs in my closet; dress uniform sees daylight maybe twice a year—let the medals enjoy retirement with the mothballs!"
He genuinely respected medals other officers owned; they were earned through life-threatening courage protecting the city.
As for LAPD decorations—he had four, and since the dress blues barely got worn, they might as well stay home gathering dust.
Smart officers know when to leave. Sean understood the protocol.
He wasn't foolish enough to hang around headquarters clogging the hallways while officially off-duty.
With theatrical flair he slung his jacket over his shoulder, jingled his car keys, and called out toward the office in his usual bantering voice:
"See you folks later! When we meet again depends entirely on IA's timeline. If you want to grab drinks, text me early—I've got no clue which lovely lady I'll be having dinner with tonight."
Trist watched until he disappeared down the stairwell, then sighed to the bemused officer beside her, tone mixing resigned humor and faint envy:
"See that? Our future Detective has officially entered his 'paid extended vacation' mode."
She turned, hefted a thick stack of case files and dropped them heavily:
"As for the rest of us—back to the grind!"
Watching him leave felt satisfying, but thinking about the gunfights and high-risk situations behind his leave made Trist's jaw clench.
That hardcore routine could land you straight in a flag-draped coffin with the Pipes and Drums playing—absolutely terrifying prospect.
She'd much rather avoid making headlines and relying on the Police Benevolent Association to fundraise for her kids' college tuition and funeral expenses.
Up in the rooftop parking structure Sean couldn't help humming Bob Dylan's "Like a Rolling Stone," keys spinning around his finger, mood as bright as Southern California sunshine.
Did Sean feel any guilt about the shooting?
Come on—what a ridiculous question.
As Sergeant Sean Horace of the LAPD I don't care how many different ways a criminal can die; if they threaten innocent citizens I simply provide them an express one-way ticket to their final judgment—efficient service guaranteed!
Efficient, cost-effective, zero civilian complaints.
To borrow a line from Dirty Harry:
"Go ahead, make my day—I've got the whole department backing me up!"
Another successful day protecting and serving!
At that moment Sean felt absolutely invincible.
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