Chapter 100: Valentine’s Mishap (Part 2)

Under the watchful eyes of the adorable Girl Scouts, John, usually not known for his athleticism, suddenly found a burst of energy. Despite stumbling a bit, he managed to keep up with Jack's pace.

Jack, not exerting his full strength, kept one hand on his gun holster and his eyes fixed on the guy with dreadlocks, staying hyper-vigilant. Street patrols were unpredictable; who knew if some desperate person might suddenly pull out a makeshift weapon.

Even so, the dreadlocked guy, floundering in his flight, was getting closer. When he looked back and saw the two officers just five meters behind, he panicked. Making a sharp turn to cross the street and hopefully lose them, he ended up running straight into a blue Honda Accord.

With a long screech of brakes, the dreadlocked guy crashed through the windshield, half of his body plunged into the driver's compartment.

"He came out of nowhere! I didn't mean to hit him!" The female driver, visibly shaken, scrambled out of the car, terrified.

"Dispatch, this is 7-A-26. We need fire and rescue at the intersection of Palmetto and Mateo Streets. The suspect's head is stuck in a vehicle's windshield. Please send help immediately."

Jack called into the radio while checking the suspect's injuries inside the car.

Blood was spurting rhythmically from his upper arm—a sign of arterial bleeding.

"It looks like his brachial artery was slashed by the glass. Hey, stop moving, idiot! Without a tourniquet, you'll bleed out in minutes."

Jack clamped down on the guy's arm, searching for something to use as a makeshift tourniquet. Such obvious external injuries made him wary of using any advanced first aid techniques.

"Here, use this scarf and this pen to make a tourniquet."

Out of nowhere, an adorable little girl scout appeared, offering her red scarf and a pen.

"Tie it five centimeters above the wound," she continued.

Jack quickly tied the scarf around the arm, knotted it, and used the pen to twist it tight, pressing the scarf deep into the flesh to stop the arterial bleed.

"Thank you, sweetheart. You just saved this moron's life." Jack high-fived the little girl with his clean hand.

"Can I get a Girl Scout badge for this?"

"Uh…" Jack, stumped, looked to Carla for help.

——

After handling another accident, they said goodbye to Carla and her adorable troop, now with a few boxes of free cookies, and resumed their patrol.

"So, you really don't know anything about the Girl Scouts?"

John looked surprised.

Jack gave him a sideways glance, thinking to himself that mentioning his childhood days with a red neckerchief was out of the question.

"Nope. All I know is that Girl Scouts sell cookies and Boy Scouts are currently embroiled in sex abuse scandals."

John fell silent for a moment before grumbling, "It wasn't like that back in my day."

Feeling he might have been too harsh, Jack tried to explain, "I didn't mean anything by it. My parents just never signed me up."

John shook his head, indicating he wasn't offended. "I only went to one summer camp and didn't even earn a badge."

"But these cookies are surprisingly good. Don't you want to try some?" Jack offered, biting into one.

John opened a box and raised his eyebrows, "Indeed. I might need to ask Carla for the recipe."

Despite the cookies being delicious, Jack still generously shared the shumai he had made.

The delicate dish consisted of braised beef brisket cut into small pieces, mixed with crunchy pickled bamboo shoots, and wrapped in glutinous rice soaked in the rich broth of the brisket. A thin layer of dough encased it all, shaped and steamed to perfection, creating a Chinese dim sum with a Western twist.

Watching John eat the shumai with ketchup, Jack winced slightly. Though he hailed from a region known for its sweet cuisine, the American penchant for sugary additions was too much for him. While the beef broth had been sweetened with rock sugar, pairing shumai with ketchup felt utterly wrong to him.

Sergeant Grey wasn't exaggerating when he said Valentine's Day was incredibly busy. By the time they'd dealt with two car accidents and written several more tickets than usual, they had just finished lunch and were chatting over cola when another call came through.

"7-A-26 patrol car, respond to a suspected homicide. Husband returned home to find his wife unconscious and bleeding. Detectives are en route."

Jack and John exchanged glances before Jack picked up the radio, "7-A-26, en route to assist."

They quickly arrived at a high-end neighborhood. Just as they were about to knock on the door, Angela's patrol car pulled up. After a quick greeting, Jack drew his gun and knocked.

"LAPD, is anyone inside?"

Hearing faint sobbing from within, Jack tried the door handle. It opened easily, and he moved into the living room where the sound was coming from. John and Angela fanned out to check the rooms along the hallway.

"Clear!"

"Clear!"

When they regrouped, Jack was already kneeling by a middle-aged white woman lying on the rug in front of the fireplace, her head and the carpet beneath soaked in blood. A man in his thirties or forties, also white, sat nearby, hands covered in blood, crying uncontrollably.

"Sir?" Angela called gently.

Jack shook his head at his partners, signaling that the woman was beyond saving.

"It's Valentine's Day. I came home early to surprise her. What kind of monster would do this?" The husband's voice was choked with tears, but anger seeped into his words as he spoke of the perpetrator.

Not good at consoling people, Jack looked at John to handle it, while he called into the radio.

"7-A-26 here. Victim is deceased. Please send additional units to follow up."

"Detectives are en route," the dispatcher replied.

John and Angela tried to lift the distraught husband to his feet.

"Sir, let go and come with us."

It took several calls before the husband responded. With their help, he finally stood, but not without a final, lingering touch of his wife's hand.

They gently guided him to a nearby sofa. Unconcerned about his blood-covered hands, he held his face and sobbed.

John, empathetic as ever, seemed unsure how to comfort him, while Angela continued softly coaxing him to leave the scene.

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