Jocelynn - Transfer

I was called awake for this at three this morning. When I arrived at the scene, I stayed as far from the body as possible and focued on scoping the rest of the area. I'm a narcotics detective, so I was unsure of why I was called in for a homicide case. 

That was until I saw our captain at the scene. He informed me that his Homicide team has suspicions that the murder is gang related. We in Narcotics haven't gotten wind of anything like it, and I don't think that the idiots in Homicide know more than we do about New York gangs.

What I found on the scene was nothing out of the ordinary for a typical homicide. Yes, it was clear that the murder was premeditated and that whoever did it had to have been seriously motivated. But nothing about the crime scene screamed 'related to narcotics' to me. 

I leave the scene after the body is hauled into Emory's truck and she and her team take off. If this is related to Narcotics, our medical examiner will find it. 

"Detective Sanchez," someone calls. I turn to find a young, pretty female officer, one of the three manning the front dest. 

"Yes?" 

"Captain Baker would like to see you in his office," she says with a cautious smile. "He said its urgent,"

With a nod, I make a turn and walk through the room that houses the Major Crimes unit. This unit consists of only men, because any women who has ever worked with them has requested to transfer within the week. As I make my way to the captain's office, I hear hoots and whistles from every direction. I keep my eyes forward and my steps purposeful as someone shouts asking if my trousers are too tight and if I need help taking them off. 

Yes, these are grown men who solve murders for a living. And instead of doing their jobs, they're staring at my ass. 

I ignore them and make it to Baker's office. I push the door open, hoping he has good reason for pulling me out of bed at three in the morning for a case that has nothing to do with my work. 

Regret washes over me as soon as I open the door. Four men from Baker's special homicide unit take up the space of the small room, the sight making me want to run for the hills. James Anderson stands at the small bookshelf by the right wall, looking at me like I'm a piece of gum stuck to the bottom of his ugly sneakers. Loenard Deluca stands next to him, his eyes roaming up and down my body. Ian Sorenson stands on the other side of the room, staring at the floor. 

And Andrei Smirnov is in the chair across from Baker, looking up at me with an easy smile. 

Both he and Sorenson were at the crime scene, and they both look like they'd showered and changed. It has been a couple of hours since they got the case, so it makes sense. 

I stuff my hands in the pockets of my jacket. "You wanted to see me, sir?" I say, my eyes on Baker, hoping he can see the question in my mind. What the hell is going on here?

He shakes his head and gestures to the seat next to Smirnov. "Would you like to sit down?" he asks me, his tone making me wary. 

"I'll stand,"

"I insist,"

With a sigh, I walk over and take the seat, keeping my eyes forward. Our captain smiles at me, but it doesn't reach his eyes. Something is wrong. 

"What's going on?" I ask him. 

He sits back in his chair and clasps his hands on top of the desk. "We're expanding the unit," he says. 

And there it is. 

Just like that, I wish I hadn't picked up my phone this morning, or came into work today. I should've just taken the day off like Emory suggested. 

"What?" the man to my right shouts. "No way,"

"Captain, with all due respect," Deluca says, "our unit doesn't need expanding. We're doing well as we are,"

If by 'well' he means relying on Andrei Smirnov to solve all of their cases, then yes. 

"And we certainly don't need her help," Anderson says, the last word coming out like it should be an insult. 

Smirnov's head snaps up, but instead of looking to his friends or jumping in with the shitty remarks, his eyes burn holes in the side of my face. I keep my gaze on Baker, hoping he sees the error in his ways before this goes too far. 

Anderson and Deluca break into a conversation that has a lot of 'she doesn't have what it takes' and 'what good would she do?'. I'm not surprised. I've known these men long enough to not be surprised at the shit that comes out of their mouths anymore. Its why I'm not in this division and why I don't speak to any of them. 

"Let's not get carried away," Baker says, annoyed. "If anyone has any objections, you can take it up with me,"

"I have one," I tell him. 

He gives me a look that says he knew this was coming. Of course he knew, but he did it anyway. 

"I think the five of you could benefit greatly from working together. Don't you?"

"No,"

"I second that," Anderson says. 

"Me too," his partner in stupidity says. 

Baker sighs. "This is how it's going to be, and I need to accept that sooner rather than later," he says, addressing the man. 

"This is a horrible idea," I say, keeping my hands in my pockets to refrain from punching something. 

"Well, I think it is. And if anyone, except for Sanchez, has any objections, there's a spot open in Narcotics." He shakes his head. "You would do well to show her the respect she deserves. She is not here for anything other than to be your colleague, and if I hear any slander or harrassment toward her, you will have me to deal with," he says, making sure to meet every pair of eyes on him. 

He is met with a silence that threatens to swallow the room whole. He waits for a response, looking around the room, before opening his laptop and typing in his password. 

"Right. You're all free to get back to work now," he tells us. "Smirnov, Sorenson, check on the autospy of our John Doe, and do your best to find his next of kin. Anderson, Deluca, you have a case,"

There's a murmur before the door opens and Ian Sorenson walks out, Anderson and Deluca following suit. Smirnov is the last to leave, looking hesitant and slightly conflicted as he does. 

I wait for the door to close and for my heartrate to slow down before I speak. 

"What the hell was that?" I ask him, keeping my voice monotone.

If there is anyone who'd know how much fo an inconvenience this is, it would be Anthony Baker. And yet, he is the one responsible for this monstrocity. He's the one who came up with this bullshit and thought it's the best idea he's ever had. 

He shakes his head with a sigh. "J, don't start. Please. This is for your own good,"

I cringe at the nickname, grateful he didn't use it in front of the others. If they know he addresses me by my first name, or a nickname, they'd think it was okay for them to do it. And they'd all question why I'm so friendly with the captain. 

Narrowing my eyes at him, I ask, "And how do you figure that?"

"Just trust me,"

"No,"

He sighs, closing his laptop to meet my eyes. "Dr. Achard suggested that you not work alone anymore,"

Of course this has something to do with her. The fucking psychiatrist who controls nearly every aspect of my life (where I live, which days I'm allowed to work, how many days I'm allowed to work, how many times I need to be evaluated). I am so fucking tired of it, but there's nothing I can do. I can't change my past, and she won't forget it. 

"Why? I've worked along since I became a detective, and I've done well," I tell him. "I'm great in Narcotics,"

He levels me with a look. "You mean with the lieutenant who treats you like more of a secretary than an actual detective? The one who reassigns your cases every time you have a breakthrough? The lieutenant who told you to consider a career in fashion instead of this?"

I could put up with that. It is way better than what I'd experienced with my TO, what I had to deal with in the Academy, and exceedingly better than what I'd gone through as a child. I could put up with anything other than working in Homicide, surrounded by men who are exactly like my lieutenant. 

"Then give me a different lieutenant. Don't take me out of narcotics. Don't put me with them," I plead with him.

"I know this isn't what you want, J, and I know it's going to be hard, but it is needed. If you can prove that you're willing and able to work with others, that you're not on your own all the time, it could help with all the evaluations," he says, shaking his head for emphasis. "And it could be better for your mental health,"

"I'm fine," I say through gritted teeth. 

"You say that, but you forget that I've known you your whole life. I know you, J,"

"If you knew me, you'd know that this is the last thing I'd ever want. Do you think they're just going to accept this? They're going to give me hell,"

"So give them hell back," he says with an arched brow. "They have nothing on you. Any of them,"

"That doesn't matter. You know them. You know what they're like, how they speak to and treat the women in this building. How they treat women in general." God, my brain feels ready to explode. "I work better on my own. You know that,"

He nods. "I do. I also know that this isn't the reason you don't want to do this," he says, cocking his head at me. 

"What are you talking about?" 

"It's not because they're men or because you don't like them. It's because it's Homicide,"

I shake my head, pushing down the bile forming in my throat. "I can't,"

"You can," he says with a small smile. "You are capable of so much more than you give yourself credit for. Think about how much better your life would be with less evaluations, less people trying to get in your head, less people talking to you about your feelings and emotions,"

"This is the stupidest thing you've ever thought of. I hope you know that," I tell him. "It's never going to work,"

"Make it work,"

"I don't have a choice here, do I?"

He shakes his head, his expression sombre. "I wish there were another way," he says. "Listen, I trust Smirnov and Sorenson. They're good people. They'll look out for you,"

My brows shoot up. "You didn't tell them to do that, did you?"

I don't need special treatment and I definitely don't need people thinking I'm getting special treatment from the captain who lets everyone fight their own battles. I have worked long and hard to make sure that no one sees our relationship as anything but professional. I don't need to be hated more for something I can't control. 

A chuckle rolls out of Baker. "Like I would risk your wrath." The laugh fades and his expression is back to business. "I need you to sign the transfer papers,"

I shake my head with a scoff and push out of the chair. "You know where to find me," I say, heading out of the office.