Tuesday Morning

Superintendent Mavers arrived at the detachment at 6:47 AM, thirteen minutes earlier than usual. The parking lot was empty except for the night shift patrol cars and his own gray Silverado, which looked increasingly shabby next to the newer municipal vehicles at City Hall across the street.

He'd been awake since 4:30, staring at the ceiling while Sarah breathed steadily beside him. The homeless encampment behind the Walmart had grown to forty-three people—he'd counted them during yesterday's drive-by. Forty-three people who would need to disappear before Minister Leland's visit on Thursday.

The coffee maker gurgled as he pulled up his emails. Nineteen new messages since midnight.

**Subject: URGENT - Federal Firearms Initiative Compliance Report DUE**
**Subject: CONFIDENTIAL - Provincial Intelligence Re: Federal Overreach**
**Subject: Re: Homeless Population - Council Meeting Thursday**
**Subject: FW: Minister Leland Visit - Direct Federal Coordination**

Mavers opened the federal email first. Assistant Deputy Minister Rousseau's message was brief and pointed: *Superintendent Mavers - Minister Leland's advance team reports concerns about "visible social disorder" during Thursday's infrastructure announcement. Federal partners expect local cooperation in ensuring appropriate conditions. This initiative represents $47M in direct federal investment bypassing provincial obstruction. Results matter. - ADM Rousseau*

The next email made his stomach clench. Provincial liaison Sandra Kovach had forwarded intelligence from Edmonton: *Jim - FYI, feds are planning to use Leland's visit to embarrass the Premier. They want photos of federal money "fixing problems" the province "ignores." Your cooperation with their theatrics will be noted. We're documenting all federal attempts to undermine provincial jurisdiction. Choose your loyalties carefully. - S. Kovach*

The phone rang before he could process the contradiction.

"Superintendent? It's Mayor Kowalski. We need to talk. Now."

Twenty minutes later, Kowalski sat across from Mavers' desk, sweating despite the morning chill. His usual political confidence was replaced by barely controlled panic.

"Jim, I'm getting pulled in three directions here. Ottawa's promising us infrastructure money if we play nice for their minister. But I just got off the phone with Municipal Affairs—they're threatening to review our provincial funding if we look too cozy with the feds." Kowalski leaned forward desperately. "And now both sides want the homeless situation 'handled' but for completely different reasons."

"What do you mean?"

"Ottawa wants them gone so their announcement looks good—prosperity and progress, you know? But the province wants them documented first, as evidence that federal policies created this mess." Kowalski's voice cracked slightly. "They both want us to coordinate through you, but they specifically said not to involve the other level."

Mavers felt the familiar tightness in his chest. "Paul, there are families in that camp. Kids."

"Jim." Kowalski's voice turned pleading. "I've got federal ministers promising money and provincial ministers threatening cuts. The city can't survive getting cut off by either level. You have to make this work somehow."

After Kowalski left, Mavers' phone buzzed immediately. Text from ADM Rousseau: *Call me. Urgent.*

Rousseau answered on the first ring. "Superintendent, we have a problem. We're hearing the province is trying to sabotage Thursday's announcement. They want documentation of social problems to use against us in the media."

"Sir, I report to—"

"You report to the RCMP, which reports to the federal government. The province has no operational authority over your decisions." Rousseau's voice hardened. "We need that camp cleared quietly and completely by Thursday morning. No drama, no provincial interference, no documentation that they can weaponize."

Twenty minutes later, his other line rang. Sandra Kovach from Provincial Affairs.

"Jim, we know Ottawa's pressuring you. We also know they're planning to use you to make us look bad." Her voice was ice cold. "We need photographic evidence of that camp before it gets cleared. Homeless families created by federal carbon taxes and immigration policies. Then we need a paper trail showing federal agents—that's you—forcibly removing vulnerable Albertans to protect federal political optics."

"Sandra, I can't—"

"You can and you will. Because when the APP takes over next year, your pension and your officers' jobs depend on our recommendation. The province remembers its friends, Jim. And its enemies."

At noon, Corporal Chen knocked on his door. "Sir, about the camp situation. I've been talking to Social Services, and there's literally nowhere for these people to go. The federal cuts to housing programs and the provincial cuts to mental health services—"

"Stop." Mavers held up his hand. "Just... stop."

Chen looked confused. "Sir?"

"What's our capacity for documentation? Photos, interviews, that kind of thing?"

"Documentation of what, sir?"

Mavers stared at his computer screen, where three different draft emails sat open. One to Ottawa confirming quiet removal. One to the province confirming evidence gathering. One to the mayor confirming... something.

"Never mind. Dismissed."

At 2:30, his secure line rang. ADM Rousseau again.

"Superintendent, we're hearing chatter that the province is trying to flip you. Let me be crystal clear—any cooperation with provincial efforts to sabotage federal initiatives will be viewed as insubordination. Career-ending insubordination."

"Sir, I'm just trying to—"

"You're trying to serve two masters, and that's impossible. Choose wisely."

The line went dead.

At 3:15, Sandra Kovach called back.

"Jim, we know Ottawa's threatening you. But think about this—when the APP takes over, where do you think your federal friends will be? They'll throw you under the bus the moment it's convenient." Her voice softened calculatingly. "The province takes care of its own. But we need to know you're one of ours."

By 4:00 PM, Mavers had stopped reading his emails. Each message demanded contradictory actions, threatened different consequences, promised incompatible rewards. The homeless camp had become a chess piece in a game where every move triggered retaliation.

Sergeant Thompson knocked on his door. "Sir? The afternoon briefing?"

The briefing room held eight officers, most of them looking as tired as Mavers felt. He caught the tail end of whispered conversation as he entered—something about "downtown posting" and "getting out while you can." The voices stopped abruptly.

Corporal Williams ran through property crime stats with barely concealed frustration. "Break-and-enters up thirty percent, but we're still short two officers and the overtime budget's frozen." He didn't look at Mavers when he said it, but the implication hung in the air: *You promised us you'd fight for resources.*

"Traffic enforcement updates," Thompson continued, his voice flat. "We're getting complaints about response times again. Citizens calling about dangerous driving, waiting two hours for units."

Constable Morrison shifted in his chair. "Sir, maybe if we weren't spending so much time on federal paperwork..." He left the sentence unfinished, but several officers nodded.

Mavers felt the undercurrent of resentment in the room. These were good officers—people who'd followed him because he'd promised to have their backs, to fight the bureaucracy that kept them from doing real police work. Now they watched him disappear into meeting after meeting, issuing careful non-commitments and bureaucratic double-speak.

"One more thing," Mavers said. "The homeless encampment behind Walmart needs to be addressed before Thursday."

Constable Brennan raised her hand. "Sir, what kind of addressing? And who's requesting it?"

Eight pairs of eyes looking at him, but differently than they used to. Less expectant, more resigned. Like they already knew they wouldn't get a straight answer.

"Our job," Mavers said slowly, "is public order and safety. The specific operational details will be determined based on... resource allocation and stakeholder coordination."

Corporal Williams snorted quietly. "Stakeholder coordination. Right."

"Something to add, Corporal?"

Williams looked directly at him for the first time all meeting. "No sir. Just wondering which stakeholders we're coordinating with this time."

The challenge was clear. Half the room was watching Williams, half watching Mavers. Waiting to see if their superintendent would finally give them something real to work with, or another layer of management-speak.

"But sir," Brennan pressed, "where are they supposed to go?"

Mavers looked at her earnest face, remembering his own speech to new recruits: *"If there's ever a day I don't do the right thing, you stand up and tell me right then."* The same speech Williams had been there for. The same promise Morrison had heard when he transferred in.

"Constable, our mandate is enforcement and compliance within our jurisdiction. Resource allocation for displaced persons falls under different governmental frameworks with varying federal and provincial responsibilities."

The silence stretched uncomfortably. Brennan blinked, clearly trying to parse the bureaucratic non-answer.

Constable Morrison leaned back in his chair. "Guess that's a 'figure it out yourself' then."

"Dismissed," Mavers said quickly.

As the officers filed out, he caught fragments of conversation:

"...same bullshit every meeting..."

"...remember when he used to actually make decisions..."

"...heard Calgary's got openings..."

Sergeant Thompson lingered after the others left. "Sir, can I speak freely?"

Mavers nodded, though part of him dreaded what was coming.

"The troops are losing faith. They think you're just managing up now, waiting for your next promotion." Thompson's voice was careful but firm. "They remember the guy who told Ottawa to stuff their paperwork quotas. They remember when you fought Municipal Affairs over the budget cuts. Now..."

"Now what, Dave?"

"Now they think you're more worried about your career than theirs. And sir? Some of them are right."

Thompson left without waiting for a response. Mavers sat alone in the empty briefing room, knowing that Thompson was wrong about one thing: there was no career to worry about. Not unless he became exactly the kind of administrator his officers thought he already was.

But maybe that was the point. Maybe the only way forward was to stop pretending he could be the leader they wanted and become the one the system demanded.

At 5:30, driving home past the Walmart, he finally looked toward the tree line where the blue tarps were visible through the bare branches. Forty-three people who had become a problem to be managed rather than human beings to be served.

But that was the beauty of it, really. Once you understood that your job wasn't to solve problems but to manage competing interests, everything became clearer. Federal interests, provincial interests, municipal interests—his role was to find the solution that served the greatest number of stakeholders while minimizing institutional risk.

It wasn't about right or wrong anymore. It was about sustainable outcomes within complex political frameworks.

Sarah was making spaghetti when he walked in. Their daughter Emma was at the kitchen table, working on math homework.

"How was your day, honey?" Sarah asked.

"Complex," he said, hanging his jacket on the chair. "But manageable."

Emma looked up from her homework. "Dad, we're learning about civil rights in social studies. Mrs. Peterson says police officers are supposed to protect people who can't protect themselves."

Mavers smiled and ruffled her hair. "That's right, sweetheart. We protect the community by maintaining order and ensuring all stakeholders can function within established frameworks."

Emma frowned slightly. "What does that mean?"

"It means we help people by making sure the system works for everyone."

And for the first time in months, saying it felt perfectly reasonable.