Fiction Complete by Doug Larsen

Author:Doug Larsen [Larsen, Doug]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Published: 2025-06-25T00:00:00+00:00

McNeil called him into her office when he had showered and changed, and gestured him to a seat while she looked over a computer printout.

“This is the printout of your performance this morning,” she said, waving the sheaf of paper. “I’m supposed to go over it with you, talk over some areas where you may have made a mistake, and see if you have any questions.”

“Cool,” Roberts said. “How’d I do?”

McNeil checked the scoring directory, and looked impressed. “You did very well,” she said. “Well above average in many areas. Let’s see. You got a very high score on thinking on your feet. I’ve noticed that about you. You’re fast; you’re smart. You have the ability to come up with ideas that can defuse a situation, and you show good judgment on what to do, when.”

“All right!” Roberts said, shifting his chair closer.

“You showed a low level of race sensitivity,” McNeil continued. She stopped and reread the evaluation. “That’s worded strangely. Let’s see. Oh, OK. It’s good to have a low score in this category.”

“What’s it mean?”

“It means that you’re not sensitive to what race the people are. You’re not more likely to shoot blacks than whites, for example. You’re not likely to use more violence if the person is Hispanic than you would if the person was Caucasian. You show a good grasp of the specific guidelines for acceptable force, and you don’t let it be colored by race.”

“That’s good to hear.”

McNeil consulted the printout again.

“On the other hand, your marksmanship stinks.”

“Stinks?!” Roberts repeated loudly. “Whattaya mean, stinks?”

McNeil looked at a chart. “Well, OK, it doesn’t stink. But it’s below average. You’re due for some time at the firing range, my boy.”

“OK,” Roberts sulked.

McNeil was reading some fine print. Then she looked up at him. “You were using your Glock 10?”

“Yeah, why?”

“Well, I can’t figure out how somebody could have bad marksmanship when you’re using a namby-pamby gun like a Glock 10.”

“Whattaya mean, namby-pamby?” Roberts protested hotly.

“Well, for crying out loud, it’s got that silly targeting laser built right into it! I mean, you touch the trigger and a little red laser dot shines where the thing’s pointed. The only thing it doesn’t do is hold your hand while you squeeze the trigger. And it’s got half the recoil of a .45. How can you miss with that?”

Roberts rolled his eyes. “You old-timers and your love affair with .45s! What makes them so much better than a 10 millimeter?”

McNeil glowered at him. “My old chief carried a wagon-wheel—a .38 revolver. Wouldn’t give it up for anything. He was an old-timer. I’m just a traditionalist.”

“Oh. Right. Good distinction.”

McNeil ignored him and checked the printout again. “Do you think your marksmanship score is low because you’re a bad shot? Or because you’re not comfortable with the idea of shooting people?”

“I dunno,” Roberts mumbled. “I suppose it could be some of both. I mean, it is a fairly major thing, shooting somebody.”

“Of course it is,” McNeil said. “That’s why we have this training.

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