“This is for Brandon.”
“And for everyone like him.”
The applause afterward was different.
Quieter.
More solemn.
People were crying.
After the ceremony, Andrew went directly to the station.
He walked through the same lobby where he had been attacked seventy-two hours earlier.
Officers stopped and saluted.
Some looked ashamed.
Some looked hopeful.
He continued toward his new office.
Former Deputy Chief Walsh’s office.
It had been cleared.
The expensive watch was gone.
The personal decorations were gone.
Everything connected to the previous command had been removed.
Clara Williams knocked on the open door.
She carried a box.
“Chief Harris.”
Andrew looked up.
“These are the cold cases.”
She placed the box on the desk.
“Families still waiting for answers.”
Andrew looked down at the stack.
Every folder represented someone’s brother.
Someone’s sister.
Someone’s child.
“Let’s get to work.”
Clara smiled.
“Yes, sir.”
Andrew opened the first file.
Daniel Johnson.
Age 24.
Died in custody eight months before Brandon.
Similar circumstances.
Some of the same names.
“Daniel,” Andrew said quietly.
He pulled the file closer.
“Let’s start with you.”
He picked up the phone and dialed the number listed for next of kin.
A woman answered.
“Hello, Mrs. Johnson.”
Andrew looked toward the photograph of Brandon on the wall.
“My name is Andrew Harris. I’m the new chief of police.”
He glanced down at Daniel’s file.
“I’m calling about your son.”
There was silence on the other end.
“I believe there are questions that were never answered.”
Andrew paused.
“I’d like to answer them.”
Behind his desk were two photographs.
One was Brandon.
The other showed Andrew’s military unit overseas.
Different kinds of brothers.
Different kinds of battles.
The same idea had followed Andrew for twenty years.
Protect people who need protecting.
Serve people who need serving.
Outside his office window, afternoon light spread across the parking lot.
Shift change was beginning.
Officers coming.
Officers leaving.
Business as usual.
Except it wasn’t business as usual anymore.
Not under Andrew Harris.
The camera inside IR3 had been replaced and permanently integrated into the station’s accountability system.
A new plaque had been installed outside the room.
It read:
BRANDON HARRIS REFLECTION ROOM
Beneath the name were the words:
Every person who enters this building is someone’s brother, sister, parent, or child.
Treat them accordingly.
Every new officer would see it.
Every shift.
Every day.
They would remember.
And the culture would change slowly, deliberately.
One shift at a time.
One officer at a time.
One call for help at a time.
That was Andrew’s promise to his brother.
His promise to the city.
And the oath he intended to spend the rest of his career making sure truly meant something.