Each character is at least 18 years of age or older. This is a work of fiction.
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It had been a long day at work. One wouldn't think that a university police department would be as busy as they had been that day, but it was just one call after another. It didn't help that the university also ran a Level 1 trauma center hospital and the security staff always seemed to find their fair share of shenanigans.
Despite what many people thought, dispatching was a very taxing job. Sure, dispatchers weren't expected to run after anyone or potentially have someone shoot at them, but some of the horrors they heard on the phone without actually being able to help or hearing the fear and panic from an officer over the radio that found themselves in a fight, took a toll that could haunt someone forever. Roger had suffered his fair share of trauma after twenty years in the US Marine Corps, but this was something different altogether.
After several deployments himself, and then training young Marines to go and do the same thing, Roger Lawson wanted something to do after retiring that he assumed would be a cakewalk compared to his former work. He couldn't just sit still at home after retiring, but he thought himself too old to start at the bottom rung of a police department and he sure as hell wasn't going to be a grocery store greeter or an underpaid, unarmed security guard. A friend turned his attention to this police department and their need for a dispatcher. It was a public safety position, but he wouldn't have to go through a long academy just to do it. And how hard could it be to answer some phones and send some officers to go talk to someone?
After eight months of training, Roger was finally a full-fledged dispatcher. Despite it being more difficult than he had imagined, he flourished in the position. A year later he was appointed supervisor. He learned quickly that customer service, compassion, and an immeasurable amount of patience was required when dealing with the public, and especially the faculty and students who worked or lived on campus. The students, some of whom were absolutely clueless to the ways of the world, and the university's faculty, who were old enough to know better but were equally clueless, always provided the most trouble with their questions and complaints. But dealing with them required kid gloves because if you didn't, it was too easy to be the target of an email plummeting down the chain of command from the university President's office, or the Dean's office, detailing complaints about your service.
Today had been a long day of placating callers, giving medical instructions, and sending officers all over the place, and Roger was ready to go home. Twelve hours is a long time, but it was nothing that a quick run, hot shower, and two fingers of whiskey couldn't cure. As a bonus, it was the start of his weekend which made it all the better.
It was a short walk across the street to get to his truck. He stopped, however, when he saw a young woman who had obviously been crying. Upon closer inspection, he saw what looked like a fresh impact wound on her face and she was clutching her chest.
"Miss?" he called out to her. "Miss, are you okay? Can I help you?" He was genuinely concerned for her, especially because she looked so frightened and seemed to be wandering aimlessly.
Need help
, she thought.
Have to get away
. Other than her feet being on autopilot, those thoughts were the best she could manage. She was shaking all over despite the hot August sun still being out. But she could hear a voice, a voice that sounded sincere and kind.
"Miss?" Roger repeated. "Please, let me help you."
She looked up at him, still frightened, but taking a look at his uniform a look of realization came to her. She looked at his face and saw genuine concern and kindness. He also looked like someone who could protect her if she needed it. She ran to him, wrapped her arms around him tightly, and began to sob.
"You're okay," he said in surprise as he dropped his backpack and put an arm around her. "Listen, I work for the police department. Can you tell me what happened? Do you need an ambulance?"
Across the large parking lot, he saw two young men, probably students, laughing and pointing in her direction. He couldn't hear what they were saying, but from their tone, they were obviously mocking her. When they saw her in the arms of Roger Lawson, however, they stopped and turned in the other direction.
Roger was a big man. He was six-one, one hundred and eighty pounds, and obviously still in fighting form. But the two young men decided to make a hasty retreat instead of calling more attention to themselves.
"Let's get you back to headquarters, okay?" he said, trying to turn her to begin walking back toward the police department. When he tried to lean down to pick up his bag the woman clung tighter to him. "I'm not going anywhere," he said gently. "I just need to grab my bag. I'll make sure you get somewhere safe."
She was scared and hadn't felt so helpless in ages, but she had an overwhelming feeling of trust in this man. Loosening her grip, he quickly grabbed the bag, slung it over his shoulder, and tightened his grip around her waist to start walking back across the street. It was difficult walking this way, but she was stuck to Roger like Velcro. He wondered what she would think if he scooped her up and just carried her. They would definitely have made better time.
Entering the lobby, he jabbed the button that rang a notification bell in the dispatch room and tried to seat the young lady in a chair but was pulled down with her, her grip having been relentless.
"Can I help--" the woman at the window started, then stopped when she saw who it was. "Sarge?"
"Get an officer up here for an assault report and call for an ambulance," he demanded.
"No."
Roger hadn't heard the girl speak yet and this took him by surprise. "You are injured," he said softly. "At least let them come and check you out. It looks like you took a pretty decent hit there," he said as he gestured toward the left side of her face but making sure not to actually touch it. "You could have a concussion."
"No. N-no, I'm okay," she replied softly. "Just don't leave me." She looked up at him with pleading eyes, her fingers clutching him again.
After a moment he nodded. He didn't know what had happened to her, but obviously it was traumatic. She likely hadn't had anything like this happen to her before, so processing it must have been difficult. Roger didn't have anything else to do and helping her get through this didn't cost him anything at all.
Soon after, an officer appeared in the lobby. Roger introduced him as Officer Miller and explained that he would be taking her statement. At first, she refused, wanting Roger to do the report. He had to explain that he was a dispatcher, not a police officer and that he couldn't write the report.
"...but...she said Sarge," came her reply.
Miller spoke up. "We call him that because he retired from the Marine Corps as a 1st Sergeant. Even the Chief calls him Sarge."
Roger shrugged. "I'm sorry for the confusion, but Miller here is a good officer. And I'll stick around as long as you need me."
She sighed, nodded, and then the whole story came out. Her name was Emma Butler, a 26-year-old senior getting her degree in management. She lived off-campus but had reluctantly decided to go with a girl from one of her classes, an acquaintance really, to a party at one of the fraternity houses after their class together. She thought it would be okay since it started in the afternoon and she would bow out before it got dark, but two young men took a liking to her, and their alcohol, and tried to corner her in one of their rooms. After some unwanted touching, she got up enough nerve to try to stand and leave. They kept pawing at her and one of them punched her in the face. She said she fell and was very dizzy and could feel them groping at her breasts as they tried to unfasten her pants. The only thing to save her was a couple who had come in to find a place to make out, but stopped to ask if she was okay.
Having recovered from the punch, and thankful for the interruption, Emma tried to stand again. When she did, one of the young men wound up scratching her chest as she forcefully pulled his hand from under her shirt. An argument between the couple who had come in and the two young men gave her a chance to leave the house. A few unclear moments later she ran into Roger.
While retelling her story, Emma started crying again. Roger grabbed a box of tissues from the table next to him and offered them to her. She actually smiled when she thanked him, and it was a beautiful smile. It was at that point when Roger noticed what she looked like. Despite the red and now bruising side of her face, Emma was an astonishingly beautiful woman. She was on the short side, slim, and about five feet, five inches tall with light blonde hair and beautiful, but currently saddened blue eyes. But he quickly pushed those thoughts right out the window. She was just sexually assaulted and the last thing she needed was another man leering at her.
"The buggy's here," Miller said as the ambulance pulled into the parking lot.
"I asked you not to call them," Emma said, slightly angry but more embarrassed, as she glanced out the window to see the flashing red lights.
"You did," Roger replied, "but after your story I'm glad we called them anyway. I think you were hit a bit harder than you realize." When she started to object, he added, "It won't take but a few moments. They'll shine some light in your eyes, take your vitals, and maybe look at the scratches to make--"
She pulled her shirt up in a tight bunch close to her. "No."
As the Fire/EMS crew walked in, thankfully being a crew having not one but two females, Roger replied, "It's your call, but I don't think it would hurt to have one of these medics check you out, do you?"
Because of her still delicate condition, Roger asked that only the two female medics remained in the lobby. Emma didn't need any fire department lookie-loos hanging around. She allowed one of the two female medics to take her vitals and check her face but still refused to allow anyone to see her chest. And to no one's surprise, she refused any treatment and definitely no transport.
As the fire crews departed, Miller spoke into Roger's ear then disappeared behind a card access door leaving Roger and Emma alone in the lobby. She didn't have the same death grip on him that she did initially, but she still clung to his arm. Her breathing had slowed, and she was no longer crying, which was a good thing. Maybe she was calm enough to relax a little?
