"Hey, Pete, I need to see you," the chief yelled from his door.

Pete walked into the office and shut the door behind him. He was showered up after his second to last shift before his mandatory two year service in the New York City Police Department has come to an end.

"Sir?"

"Hey, Pete, how are ya?"

"Good, sir, you know. Pretty easy night."

"Listen," he said, tossing a pen on a stack of papers and crossing his legs and leaning back in his chair, "I wanted to talk to you about you getting out of the department. Please, siddown, make yourself comfortable," he said, gesturing with an open palm to a leather chair, which was cracked and faded in color, in front of his desk.

Pete moved in front of the chair and sat down. He scooted the chair forward and straightened it out. As he folded his hands and placed them in his lap, he asked, "What's up, chief?"

"You're a good cop, kid. I understand that the President is making everyone try the force for two years because Congress has deemed it safer to be on the force rather than mandatory military service. A lot of people don't give a shit, you know? They don't bother to get out of the car if it's snowing, they only break up fights if they go on long enough, blah, blah, blah.

"The point is, Pete, is that you're a damned good cop. I want to -"

"Sir, I'm gonna stop you right there," Pete interrupted, "I enjoyed this job for the two years that I had to do it, but frankly, it's not for me. There's nothing you can say that'll make me stay in."

"Nothin', huh?"

"Nothing."

"Well" - he clapped his hands and held it out for a handshake - "good luck to you out there, Pete. And if you do decide to come back, gimmie a call there and I'll see if I can't get you back to this precinct."

"Thanks, Chief," Pete said, shaking his hand, "I'll do that."

Pete walked out of the room and the Chief yelled, "You're on tomorrow starting at 8 AM."

"I'll be there," he said.

When Pete got home, he put the key in his door, opened it, tossed the keys on the end table located on the inside of his apartment and locked the deadbolt when the door closed. He poured himself a glass of wine, red, not white, and walked into his bedroom and flipped the light. He sat down at his desk.

On the wall directly in front of his desk was a cork board with pins holding strings of red yarn running from one picture to another. Pictures of a bank vault, the road the bank was on, the blueprints of the building and profiles of the tellers.

You see, as a cop, Pete knew the stupid things that criminals do that get them caught. He knew that you should wear leather gloves and not latex gloves because they can still leave partial fingerprints. He knew that wearing a ski mask was a must and that he should go to the teller with the most to lose and not alert the mother of two working two jobs to send her children to private school until he was right at the counter so that she couldn't trip the silent alarm. He knew all the other little things, like the hair fibers that could fall off his head and the tiny stuff that detectives will look for at a crime scene.

Pete never liked being a cop, but he knew that it was an excellent education. He knew exactly how to be a good criminal. A criminal that could see through the system and manipulate the flaws. He took a sip of wine and looked forward to 8 AM. He had one more shift to do, then he was getting his degree and going on his own rendition of a job hunt.