Partnered Senses

Motheship Old School, about 350 words. Not a story really, just a slice 'o life from the 2-7.

Please let me be right that Van Buren's hubby is Don and that he runs a hardware store!

And thank to Culturevulture, who made the original observation about Mike and Lennie's respective talents.



“What’s so funny?”

Anita Van Buren looked up from her plate. “I just realized something. Don’t know why I didn’t figure it out earlier.”

“Yeah.”

She laced her fingers together. Normally, she tried to keep the office at the office. But at least this story had a happy ending.

“We had a call come in today, a missing child. Mother was sure the kid had been abducted. Mike and Lennie caught it. They followed some leads to an abandoned building where the neighborhood kids had been hanging out, but they didn’t find anything. And then—“

“Nothing in here but rats, maybe. We’re gonna need a bigger gun.”

“Yeah, just….wait a minute. You hear that?”

“Just my stomach rumbling, Mike.”

“No. Over there. Sounds like…whimpering.”

They paced back across the antique floor. Too much creaking and cracking for Briscoe to pick anything out.

“No, I don’t---hold on.”

Mike turned, saw his partner take a deep breath. Lennie's substantial nose wrinkled.

“That smell. Ohh, I can never forget baby poop.”

“You think---“

They knelt, started pulling away trash, old boards and boxes. A piece of flooring was loose. Mike used his cuffs to poke it up enough to lift.

“Turns out one of the local gang-bangers had put the word on the street that he wanted to rape a virgin, and some of this child’s so-called pals had snatched her, planning to sell her to him. The girl’s safe, Thank God. Don, she was only five years old.”

He shook his head. “And I think the punks who come in, try to swipe o-rings and screws are bad.” He sipped at his coffee. “But why did you laugh?”

“Because thinking about it made me realize why Briscoe and Logan are so good together. It’s the combination of Mike’s ears and Lennie’s nose. That’s why they have the best solve rate in the precinct.”

“Now all you need are detectives who work on sight and taste.”

“That’s right,” Anita agreed as Don rose and walked around the table. “But what about touch?”

Her husband leaned over, kissed her neck, then wrapped his arms around her gently. “You leave that sense to me.”