Five days after the shooting, the Multnomah County District Attorney’s Office and the Portland Police Bureau held a joint press conference.
Investigators had reviewed the television footage, witness statements, physical evidence, and Joshua Coffey’s revolver.
Their conclusion was straightforward: Nick Burkhardt’s use of deadly force had been legally justified and consistent with department policy.
Once Nick completed his mandatory seven-day critical-incident leave, he would be cleared to return to duty.
Captain Sean Renard stood behind the podium before a wall of PPB insignias and news cameras.
His controlled expression and polished appearance made him look more like a Hollywood leading man than a police commander.
“Even during the final moments of the encounter, Officer Burkhardt attempted to resolve the situation with a Taser,” Renard said.
“He chose a less-lethal option because his first priority was protecting human life.” The reporters listened closely as the captain continued.
“When the armed suspect opened fire, Officer Burkhardt survived because of his training, courage, and extraordinary presence of mind.” Renard then made an unexpected announcement.
Nick would not simply return as a newly appointed detective.
He was being assigned directly to the homicide division under Renard’s command, with the corresponding detective pay grade.
The person most excited by the decision was Hank Griffin.
Like many large police departments, the PPB divided its investigative work among specialized units.
New detectives rarely began their careers handling murders.
Most started with burglary, theft, or routine robbery cases while building experience.
The homicide division handled the city’s most serious violent crimes.
Joining it immediately was an opportunity few newly promoted detectives received.
Renard made the arrangement even more favorable by pairing Nick with his former patrol partner.
Hank had transferred into homicide nearly a year earlier.
Now the two men would work together again.
“So, did you meet with the department psychologist?” Hank asked when Nick finally reported to the detective floor.
“Your first officer-involved shooting isn’t something they let you skip.” Nick placed a cardboard box containing his personal belongings on the empty desk beside Hank’s.
“Everything went fine.
Did you forget that I minored in psychology?” “That doesn’t mean you can evaluate yourself.” “I have a different question.” Nick turned toward him.
“Why was the psychologist your ex-wife?” Hank’s expression changed immediately.
“You saw Wendy?” “Yes.” He grabbed Nick by the arm and pulled him a few steps away from the surrounding desks.
“She didn’t try anything, did she?” Hank whispered.
“That woman has terrible boundaries.” Nick gave him a flat look.
“Relax.
She isn’t my type.” Wendy was attractive, but nearly every feature she possessed had been surgically enhanced.
Nick had never understood the appeal of a body designed to resemble a reality-television celebrity.
Hank, however, appeared to possess no such limitations.
Nick still could not understand how a man who had not yet turned thirty had already gone through three marriages.
Even more impressive, Hank had escaped each divorce without being financially destroyed.
Then again, his former wives had careers of their own.
Most were attorneys, psychologists, or other professionals who earned more than a police detective.
Compared with them, Hank was simply a poorly paid cop living in an aging rental apartment.
There had never been much money for anyone to take.
Nick received no active cases on his first day.
Instead, he spent the morning completing transfer documents and equipment requests.
One application concerned authorization to carry a patrol rifle.
An ordinary Oregon resident could legally purchase a rifle after passing the required federal background check.
Carrying a privately owned weapon while acting as a police officer, however, was a different matter.
Nick needed departmental approval, an inspection of the firearm, and proof that he had completed an approved patrol-rifle course.
He also submitted paperwork to register an additional backup handgun for duty use.
His original plan was to attend an advanced carbine program on his own.
The tuition alone was approximately fifteen hundred dollars.
Once travel, lodging, meals, and ammunition were included, the total expense would likely reach three or four thousand.
Nick owned his house and car outright.
His largest yearly expenses were property taxes, utilities, food, and equipment.
Police work did not make him wealthy, but his lifestyle allowed him to save more than twenty thousand dollars during his years on patrol.
Unfortunately, most of that money was no longer sitting in a bank account.
Nick had invested heavily in Apple stock and a strange new digital currency called Bitcoin.
He believed both would become far more valuable in the future, so selling either investment for a training course felt wasteful.
Paying several thousand dollars from his remaining cash would hurt.
He still considered it necessary.
Nick had not discovered what Joshua Coffey truly was.
The creature might have been supernatural, genetic, or something else entirely.
One fact remained clear.
Bullets had killed it.
Until Nick understood more about these hidden creatures, increasing his available firepower was the most practical form of preparation.
Not long after he submitted the applications, Captain Renard summoned him to his office.
Renard’s height, dark hair, green eyes, and sharply defined features gave him a distinctly European appearance.
He stood slightly taller than Nick and carried himself with the confidence of someone accustomed to controlling every room he entered.
The captain also had a curious departmental distinction.
Nick had occupied the July page of the PPB charity calendar for three consecutive years.
Renard permanently held March.
Among officers who enjoyed risking their careers through inappropriate jokes, the captain was known as Mr.
March.
Nick entered the office and closed the door behind him.
“You wanted to see me, Captain?” Renard gestured toward the chair across from his desk.
“I reviewed your patrol-rifle request and your firearms qualification records.” Nick sat down.
“Your scores are exceptional,” Renard continued.
“Have you considered becoming a firearms instructor or applying to the Special Emergency Reaction Team?” The question caught Nick off guard.
“My current record doesn’t include military or tactical-unit experience,” he replied.
“I don’t believe I have the résumé the team normally expects.” That answer was technically true.
Nick Burkhardt had never served in the military.
The field-kitchen squad leader and combat veteran had belonged to his previous life, a history no background investigation could ever uncover.
“My career goal is still homicide,” Nick added.
“I want to become a strong investigator before I consider another specialty.” Renard did not respond immediately.
He leaned back in his chair and studied Nick with a gaze that felt far more penetrating than an ordinary supervisor’s interest.
“The department has money remaining in this year’s training budget,” he finally said.
“Would you be interested in attending Gunsite Academy?” Nick straightened slightly.
“For what course?” “A two-week patrol-rifle and tactical carbine program.
Successful completion would satisfy the advanced qualification requirement for your equipment authorization.” Renard folded his hands across the desk.
“The department can also fund an additional week of close-quarters training.
The program was designed for law-enforcement agencies and incorporates elements of Marine Corps Martial Arts, defensive tactics, ground fighting, and weapon-retention work.” Nick had studied similar systems before.
During his previous life, the U.S.
Army constantly evaluated different combat methods.
Standard combatives programs borrowed from boxing, wrestling, Brazilian jiu-jitsu, Muay Thai, Krav Maga, and other practical disciplines.
Specialized units also trained with batons, entrenching tools, improvised weapons, and close-quarters techniques suited to riot control or confined terrain.
Nick doubted the additional course would teach him much that he could not already do.
The certification was what mattered.
Within the police department, ability alone was not enough.
An officer could defeat every defensive-tactics instructor in the bureau and still be barred from teaching without approved credentials.
The position Renard mentioned was different from serving as a field-training officer for rookies.
A certified firearms or defensive-tactics instructor could train personnel from across the PPB.
The department employed more than a thousand sworn officers.
Becoming one of its official instructors would give Nick influence, professional credibility, and an additional path for advancement.
The current lead defensive-tactics instructor was Captain Bogner.
Nick was confident he could defeat the man in a serious fight, but confidence did not count as certification.
Renard appeared unusually invested in his development.
It almost seemed as though the captain was deliberately preparing Nick to become one of his trusted subordinates.
Nick saw no reason to reject the opportunity.
“I’m interested,” he said.
“Thank you, Captain.” “Good.
I’ll have the training division contact you with the schedule.” Renard signed the patrol-rifle authorization request and placed it in a separate folder.
“Once you complete the course and qualify with the weapon, you may carry an approved semiautomatic rifle in your assigned vehicle.” “That solves several problems.” Renard’s gaze lingered on him.
“What problems are you expecting, Detective Burkhardt?” Nick gave a mild smile.
“None, Captain.
I prefer being prepared before they appear.” Renard returned the expression, though his eyes remained difficult to read.
“A useful quality in a homicide detective.” Nick left the office with the training issue resolved.
His next goal was to visit the medical examiner’s office and take another look at Joshua Coffey’s body.
He wanted to determine whether any physical trace of the transformation remained after death.
That plan failed immediately.
“The body is gone,” the medical examiner told him.
“Gone where?” “The family completed the release paperwork and claimed it for burial.” Nick frowned.
“Already?” “They moved quickly.” The response bothered him.
Families often needed several days to make arrangements after an unexpected death, especially when the body had been involved in a police investigation.
Coffey’s relatives had completed everything with unusual speed.
Even stranger, they had caused no trouble.
No one threatened to sue the city.
No grieving relative appeared on television describing Coffey as a misunderstood man with a kind heart.
The family had not contacted Nick, the police union, or the department.
They had simply accepted the death, claimed the body, and disappeared.
Considering the circumstances, their silence felt far more unsettling than anger would have.