Chapter 5: Night Shifts and Neighborhood Legends (Expanded Edition)
Night shifts had a rhythm.
Slower, deeper. The city took longer breaths after dark. What had been bustling in daylight simmered down to a kind of whisper—broken occasionally by sirens, barking dogs, and the distant rattle of Metro rails.
I clocked in at 6:47 p.m., thermos in hand, gear squared away. Jackson walked beside me, chewing a protein bar with the expression of someone still spiritually asleep.
"It's always colder on night shift," he said.
"It's not," I replied. "Your soul's just more exposed after sunset."
He narrowed his eyes. "Did you sleep today?"
"Define sleep."
---
Grey was already in the briefing room sipping from his battered thermos like it owed him rent. Lopez leaned against the wall, arms crossed, while Chen scrolled her tablet.
"Light call sheet," Grey said. "Mostly quality-of-life stuff. Animal complaints, a few loud parties. Nothing that should involve tasers unless you provoke them."
Bradford tossed out assignments like candy at Halloween.
"Stanton, West—you're Echo Park loop tonight. Try not to summon raccoons."
"I never summon," I said. "I attract."
Lopez muttered, "Like a human snack bar."
---
We rolled out just after 7:10 p.m., city still shrugging off daylight.
First call hit at 7:26.
"Unit 132, canine disturbance—Echo Glen Trail. Caller reports heavy breathing and 'howling whispers.'"
Jackson looked at me, mouth full of granola. "Is that code for something?"
I shook my head. "Only in urban legend. Welcome to Whisper Dog territory."
---
Call 1: The Whispering Dog
Echo Glen Trail sat quiet and half-swallowed by tree cover, its entrance hidden behind a rusted sign and a crumbling community bulletin board. The kind of place where legends were born just from the way fog clung to the path.
Jackson parked the cruiser at the trailhead while I scanned the perimeter with my flashlight.
Three teenagers stood off to the side—two girls, one boy—each wrapped in hoodies, arms crossed tight. They weren't scared exactly, but they weren't joking either.
"It was like breathing," one of the girls said. "Not a growl. Just... really close. And then we heard a bark, but it was soft. Like it didn't want to be heard."
Jackson raised an eyebrow. "Any chance someone was playing a prank?"
The other girl shook her head. "There's no one else out there."
I signaled Jackson and we stepped onto the trail. The gravel crunched underfoot. Trees loomed overhead like patient statues. I flicked my flashlight between bushes while Jackson scanned our rear.
Five minutes in, we heard it.
Wuuuuuuhffffhhh...
Low. Guttural. Not aggressive. But definitely deliberate.
A shape moved through the underbrush, and we both froze—then out trotted a massive Samoyed in a powder-blue thunder vest. Its tail wagged like a flag on parade.
Attached to its collar was a tiny speaker, which wheezed out another breathy exhale.
The dog plopped its butt down and gave us an expectant look.
A jogger soon followed, panting. "Oh God—there he is! Rufus! Sorry, officers. His calming audio's on loop. It soothes him when he's out late."
I blinked. "Your dog breathes through a speaker?"
"He has anxiety."
Jackson nodded slowly. "Don't we all."
We logged it as "Resolved: Canine Audio Disturbance." First mystery of the night solved.
---
Call 2: The Donut Shop Break-In
At 9:38 p.m., dispatch pinged us again.
"Possible 459 at Bernie's Donuts. Motion alarm activated. No keyholder on site."
We arrived in five. The door was cracked open—not shattered, just slightly ajar. No obvious damage to the frame.
"Back door?" Jackson asked.
"Let's sweep the front first."
Inside, the place looked like every mom-and-pop donut shop you've ever loved: red vinyl stools, pastel signage, the lingering smell of sugar and old oil. The display cases were half-full. A tray of glazed crullers lay tipped over on the floor.
Then we heard the scuffle. Metal trays. A tiny thud.
Kitchen.
We moved in slow, flashlights up.
That's when the raccoon waddled out.
Followed by two more.
The lead one hissed and bolted, trailing powdered sugar like a war flag.
Jackson gaped. "Is this real life?"
I said nothing, just grabbed a broom and flipped a tray upright to guide them. It became an impromptu maze of baking sheets and flour.
They skittered between our legs, chittering like organized criminals.
After 15 sweaty minutes, we finally got them outside. They stared through the glass for a second, then retreated into the night.
The owner arrived mid-laugh. "They always come back. Y'all want a dozen?"
We left with bear claws and a new respect for tactical raccoon units.
---
Call 3: The Mailbox Serenade
It was 1:52 a.m. when we got what we thought would be a throwaway call.
"Suspicious individual, Magnolia & 9th. Reported singing to public property."
When we pulled up, we saw him: late 40s, wearing fleece pajamas and bunny slippers. Holding a Bluetooth speaker. Serenading a mailbox.
His falsetto echoed off the brickwork.
"She's metal but tender—my mailbox delight!"
Jackson stayed in the cruiser.
I approached. "Sir? Everything alright?"
He turned, beaming. "I'm reclaiming lost love, officer. She swallowed my letter in 2002 and I never got her back."
"The mailbox."
"She kept my secrets."
He wasn't high. Not drunk. Just deeply emotional and possibly very lonely.
I stayed with him while Jackson called dispatch for a wellness referral. We chatted about his letter (to a woman named Margot), about his regrets, about the way silence grows too loud when you live alone.
Eventually, a friend arrived to walk him home.
As he left, he turned to me and said, "Thanks for listening. You're not just badges. You're memory-keepers."
That stuck with me.
---
Call 4: Hillcrest Reflection
At 2:30 a.m., we parked at Hillcrest Overlook.
No call. No noise. Just pause.
The skyline glowed, soft and blue. Planes blinked overhead like patient satellites.
"You think we're doing enough?" Jackson asked.
"Define enough."
"Making the job mean something."
I thought for a moment. "You show up. You listen to mailbox love songs. You chase raccoons with a mop. That's meaning."
He smiled.
We didn't talk after that.
We didn't need to.
---
Call 5: Rookie Round-Up and Rooftop Reset
At 3:45 a.m., back at the precinct, Reyes and Tomlin passed us in the hall.
Reyes raised her coffee. "Stanton. West. Whisper Dog survivors."
I grinned. "You're still on your feet?"
Tomlin yawned. "Barely. But we didn't crash a cruiser or lose a suspect."
"Gold stars all around."
Lopez offered us a cruller from our own bag. Bradford didn't ask about the raccoons. Chen just pointed to her notes and said, "I knew it was Rufus. Had a hunch."
Grey said nothing—but his second coffee was labeled "Stanton Blend."
---
As I logged our reports, Natasha appeared in the hallway with two coffees and a pastry box.
"You survived the night."
"Barely."
We walked outside, past the lot, through the quiet neighborhood where sunrise hadn't quite shown its face yet.
"You've changed," she said.
I didn't respond.
"You're not trying to be anyone. You're just being you."
I looked at her. "You think that's enough?"
"I think it's what they needed. And what you needed."
She handed me the coffee. "Rufus says thanks. He respects your breathing."
I laughed.
---
We stood quietly, sipping in the dark.
Then the city began to glow.
Just a little.