Five days later, the Portland Police Bureau and the Multnomah County District Attorney’s Office held a joint press conference at the Justice Center.
With cameras flashing and news anchors taking notes, the DA officially cleared Nick of any wrongdoing, declaring that his use of deadly force against Joshua Coffey was legally justified under Oregon self-defense statutes.
Nick was cleared to return to active duty following a mandatory one-week critical incident administrative leave.
Captain Sean Renard personally took the podium, delivering a crisp, commanding statement to the press.
“Even in those final fraction-of-a-second moments, Officer Burkhardt attempted to deploy a less-lethal Taser unit to preserve life and maintain public safety,” Renard stated, his sharp green eyes sweeping across the bank of press cameras.
“Thanks to his disciplined daily training and exceptional composure, Officer Burkhardt survived an unprovoked deadly assault…”
Then, in a surprise move that caught the local press corps off guard, the imposing Police Superintendent announced that Nick was being exceptionally promoted to Detective Grade 2 and transferred directly into the North Precinct’s Homicide Division under his personal oversight.
The person thrilled most by this news wasn’t Nick—it was his veteran squad partner, Detective Hank Griffin.
In major police departments across North America, major crime divisions operate under strict structural hierarchies.
The Homicide Unit exclusively handles high-profile homicides, suspicious deaths, and major officer-involved incidents.
Typically, newly minted detectives selected from the patrol ranks must spend years working property crimes, auto theft, or lower-level robbery beats before ever receiving a major homicide assignment.
Captain Renard’s executive decision bypassed the traditional bureaucracy entirely.
Not only had he fast-tracked Nick’s promotion, but he had also reassigned Hank Griffin—who had already served in Homicide for nearly a year—to be Nick’s senior partner once again.
“So, did you see the department shrink yet?
The first time you put a guy down is no joke, man,” Hank asked with genuine concern the moment Nick walked into the 3rd-floor Detective bullpen to report for his first shift.
Nick feigned mild confusion, setting his coffee mug down on his new desk.
“I’m completely fine.
You forget I minored in criminal psychology in college.
But I do have one question for you…
why was the clinical psychologist assigned to my case your ex-wife?”
Hank stopped in his tracks, his eyes widening in slight embarrassment as he pulled Nick away from the surrounding desks.
“Wait…
you saw Wendy?
Tell me that woman didn’t try to flirt with you.
Her absolute favorite hobby is sleeping with her clients.”
Nick shivered involuntarily, picturing the voluptuous, heavily modified appearance of the clinical practitioner.
“Relax, Hank.
You know I’ve never been interested in ‘artificial plastic surgery’.” He shook his head, looking at his partner with genuine amazement.
“Honestly, Hank, I respect your complete lack of discrimination.
But I still don’t get how you’re not even thirty yet, you’ve been divorced three times, and you managed to walk away from every single settlement without losing a penny.”
“Hey, I marry smart women—lawyers, psychologists, corporate accountants.
When things fall apart, they realize a poor city cop living in a rented flat has nothing worth taking in alimony anyway.”
With no active homicide calls assigned on his first morning, Nick spent the initial hours completing the endless mountain of departmental paperwork required for his promotion.
Among the forms was an application for an advanced patrol long-gun permit and a secondary back-up sidearm authorization.
In Oregon, purchasing a rifle through civilian retail channels requires only a standard background check through the National Instant Criminal Background Check System (NICS)—a formality for a sworn police detective.
However, long guns acquired through basic civilian permits are legally restricted to home storage for self-defense.
To carry a legal semi-automatic carbine or tactical rifle in the trunk of his police cruiser, Nick needed an advanced tactical weapons endorsement from an accredited organization like the USCCA (United States Concealed Carry Association).
The primary obstacle was the cost.
While the course tuition sat at $1,500, once travel, lodging, tactical gear, and match-grade ammunition costs were factored in, the total out-of-pocket expense would easily reach $3,500 to $4,000.
Nick owned his home and vehicle outright, maintaining low annual living expenses and modest property taxes.
Over his years on the force, he had saved over $20,000.
However, almost all of his liquid capital had been converted into long-term investments—primarily early tranches of Bitcoin and tech stocks like Apple.
Shelling out four thousand dollars in liquid cash right now was painful.
Yet Nick viewed it as an absolute necessity.
He still didn’t fully comprehend what kind of supernatural entity Joshua Coffey had been, but one fact was indisputable: bullets killed it.
If firearms were effective against whatever lurked in the shadows, upgrading his personal firepower was non-negotiable.
Less than an hour after submitting his gun permit paperwork, Nick was summoned to Captain Renard’s corner office.
The Superintendent sat behind a massive mahogany desk.
Standing nearly 6-foot-3, with sharp Eastern European features, dark hair, and piercing green eyes, Renard looked more like a Hollywood leading man than a bureaucrat.
Within the department, officers joked that he permanently occupied the “Mr.
March” slot on the PPB charity calendar.
“I reviewed your long-gun permit application, Burkhardt, along with your quarterly marksmanship scores,” Renard said, leaning back in his leather chair and fixing Nick with an unreadable, intense gaze.
“Are you planning to train as a firearms instructor, or are you aiming for a slot on the Special Weapons and Tactics team?”
Nick stood straight, answering frankly.
“I don’t have a military background, Captain, so SWAT isn’t on my immediate radar.
My primary goal is to become an exceptional Homicide Detective.”
Renard didn’t answer right away.
“The Bureau has an unallocated surplus in this year’s specialized training budget,” Renard said slowly.
“How would you feel about attending a two-week professional program at Gunsite Academy in Arizona?”
Nick blinked, caught off guard.
“Gunsite?”
“Not only will the department cover your advanced tactical long-gun certification, but Gunsite also offers an additional week of specialized close-quarters combat—an adapted version of the Marine Corps Martial Arts Program (MCMAP) customized for law enforcement officers.”
Renard leaned forward, resting his hands on the desk.
“All expenses paid by the department.”
Nick considered the offer.
MCMAP itself didn’t overly impress him.
In his past life, he had undergone elite military combatives training that integrated elements of Russian Sambo, Krav Maga, Brazilian Jiu-Jitsu, and practical close-quarters striking techniques.
However, the prospect of earning a certified police marksmanship instructor credential appealed to him immensely.
In a department of over a thousand sworn officers, holding an instructor certification meant he could access the Bureau’s tactical shooting ranges, specialized armory requisitions, and ammunition stores without jumping through red tape.
Renard was clearly singling him out for advancement—grooming him as a favored subordinate.
Nick saw no reason to decline.
Having a high-ranking supervisor watching your back was always an advantage in law enforcement.
“I appreciate the opportunity, Captain,” Nick replied smoothly.
“I’ll take the slot.”
“Good.
My secretary will handle your travel vouchers,” Renard said with a curt nod.
“Dismissed.”
Before leaving the precinct that afternoon, Nick attempted to follow up on one final detail: he wanted to examine Joshua Coffey’s body at the Multnomah County Morgue to see if any physical remnants of the transformation could be found under forensic dissection.
However, when Nick arrived at the Medical Examiner’s office, the head coroner delivered surprising news.
The body had already been released.
Early that morning, a family member had produced legal documentation, signed the release forms, and transferred Coffey’s remains to a private funeral home for immediate cremation.
No protests had been staged.
No angry relatives had threatened legal action against the department.
Coffey’s family had simply claimed the body, paid the fees, and vanished back into the quiet fabric of the city.
The absolute silence surrounding the suspect’s death felt far more ominous to Nick than an angry lawsuit ever would.
It was as if the hidden world Coffey belonged to was actively sweeping its tracks clean, waiting silently in the shadows.