After just one bite, Rorschach decisively handed all the Korean dumplings off to his colleagues in the department.
He filled his thermos with coffee, bit into a donut, and got ready to leave the office to continue his patrol work.
Strictly speaking, a patrol cop like Rorschach should not even have his own desk in the main hall, let alone a private office.
But not long ago he had still been a lead detective in Homicide, and even though he had been demoted this time, for various reasons the brass had decided to let him keep his office.
Based on past experience, who knew when Rorschach would crack another big case and be promoted again? Keeping the office saved everyone the trouble of constantly moving him.
Out in the squad car, Ginny had already beeped him several times over the radio urging him to hurry up. Ever since yesterday, the rookie's attitude toward him had clearly shifted. The former fear and resentment had faded, and she had even started showing him a few small signs of… concern.
"What the hell happened yesterday?" Rorschach could not figure it out.
Just as he was about to close his glass office door, an unexpected figure blocked his way.
Chief Griffin, belly sticking out like a pregnant woman's beer gut, stared straight at him. The tail of his white dress shirt was tucked tightly into his slacks and cinched with a black belt, making his stomach bulge out even more.
"Kid, you enjoying this patrol gig a little too much? It's been how long now, and you haven't solved a single case?" the chief asked unhappily.
Rorschach spread his hands helplessly. "Come on, Chief, it's only been a little over two weeks since I got demoted. I'm just a patrol officer right now. Why not let Homicide handle the cases? I'm plenty busy just walking the streets."
"Busy, my ass. Don't think I don't know you sit in the car all day with everything done for you—food brought to your mouth, clothes handed to you—barking orders at Ginny for every little thing."
"Exactly. I'm busy training the rookie."
Rorschach answered righteously. Seeing the chief's expression darken, he quickly switched to a more conciliatory tone. "I really do have a lot on my plate lately. How about this: once I finish up what I'm dealing with these next few days, I'll go over to Homicide and help them out. That work for you?"
The chief's face eased a little at that. It was not that he wanted to squeeze every drop of work out of Rorschach; it was just that the kid's ability to solve cases was almost freakish.
Plenty of times, before all the evidence was even in, the guy could look at the suspects once and pick out the culprit. And when the team dug deeper in the direction he pointed, they always managed to find the final, decisive piece of evidence to bring his suspect down.
Sometimes the chief himself wondered if Rorschach was some kind of micro‑expression expert. How else could he be so sure someone was the killer after seeing them once?
"Good. At least you know which way the wind blows. Don't worry, once these cases are wrapped up, that detective's spot is still yours. I've said the word. Nobody's taking it from you."
The chief gave him an encouraging slap on the shoulder and turned to go. Halfway out the door, something seemed to occur to him. He turned back and said, "But sticking a talent like you on South Side patrol is a bit of a waste. In three days there's a UFC heavyweight title fight here in Chicago. Both fighters are already at the United Center training. City Hall is putting a lot of weight on this event. You're going to represent the department and handle security over there for the next few days. Stop screwing around in the South Side all the time."
Rorschach's face fell. He had been planning to use the next few days to quickly stir things up between Gus and the Salamancas. If they shipped him off to play security guard at the arena now, his whole plan would be delayed.
Sensing his reluctance, the chief added in a more earnest tone, "This fight is being hosted and sponsored by a bunch of local business leaders. The goal is to raise the city's profile and attract tourists. A few of them are regular donors to the department—Chila Restaurants, Nick's Retail, and other chains. If you do a good job here, it'll only help your career, no downside."
Rorschach's first instinct was to refuse, but one of the names caught his ear. His eyes flickered, and after thinking for a few seconds, he nodded, looking less than thrilled.
"All right, if you're personally telling me to go, what can I say? I'll head over in a bit."
"Shit, what's with that face? I'm paving the road for you here, not screwing you over!" the chief grumbled, thumping him twice on the chest before leaving.
Once he was gone, Rorschach rubbed his chin and quickly replayed the chief's words in his head.
If he remembered correctly, Chila was the Mexican chain restaurant the Salamanca family had set up as a front to launder money.
"An ultimate fighting championship, huh? Now that's interesting…"
————————
The United Center arena—no exaggeration, it might be the first stop for every tourist coming to Chicago.
The reason was obvious: it was the Bulls' home court, and out front stood the statue of Michael Jordan.
Before the Mamba's helicopter went down, this had always been the most popular basketball statue photo‑op in town.
In front of the arena, Ginny took advantage of a moment when no one was paying attention to sneak her phone out and snap a selfie with the Jordan statue.
"This how you act on duty?"
Before she could take a second shot, that annoying voice sounded behind her.
Rorschach snatched the phone out of her hand and scolded, "When you're in uniform, you can drop all that idol‑worship and fangirl crap."
Watching him casually slide her phone into his pocket, Ginny did not even bother arguing; she was used to his behavior by now. She only asked curiously, "Aren't you from Chicago? Don't you like Jordan? Or are you… a LeBron fan?"
Rorschach's blank expression vanished at once, like she had just insulted his ancestors. He frowned and glared at her. "I respect Jordan's toughness on the court. His character's another story. As for LeBron? F*ck LeBron. I'd rather be a Rodman fan."
"Because Rodman's tough too?" Ginny asked, eyes wide.
"No. Because, like him, I've always wanted to nail that bitch Madonna."
"…"
Ginny took a deep breath and swore to herself she would never ask him another extra question again.
It was the NBA off‑season, so there were not many tourists in the arena, but a fair number of suits were milling around.
These local Chicago big shots were gathered around the ring, chatting and laughing with a shirtless Black heavyweight in fight shorts and an enormous frame.
No one paid any attention to Rorschach and Ginny when they walked in. Two patrol cops were not worth a second glance.
But the moment Rorschach saw the Black fighter in the ring, his eyes went cold.
He not only knew the guy; he knew him well.
Bob Sapp, Chicago's most famous no‑holds‑barred fighter, a former UFC and Bellator heavyweight champion, and a local legend in the fight scene.
But Rorschach knew him not because of his titles, but because of an intentional injury case born from domestic violence.
He could still remember that when he responded to the call and arrived at the scene, Bob had beaten his wife so badly she was almost in shock—all because she had forgotten to add his favorite kale to their steak dinner.
Rorschach and his colleagues had tried multiple times to persuade her to divorce and press charges. But whether out of fear or complete brainwashing, after she was discharged from the hospital she went right back to serving that abuser like a maid.
He had not expected one of the headliners for this ultimate fight to be that piece of shit. Rorschach snorted in contempt and let his gaze wander.
Soon, he spotted his real target—Chila's regional head, a well‑dressed middle‑aged man with a Mexican perm.
This was the guy in charge of all the Salamancas' money‑laundering operations, essentially the cartel's chief accountant.
Just as Rorschach was thinking about how best to get close and make contact, a voice full of provocation boomed from the ring.
"Hey, look who it is. If it isn't the pride of Chicago PD, Detective Butcher. What happened, man—how'd you end up slumming it as a patrol cop?"