Writing Battle: A Top 16 Finalist

Meticulous. Detail-oriented. Exacting.

These were the official words that John Hartley's colleagues would use to describe him any time they were on the record.

Unofficially? They'd say anal or asshole.

He was an exceptional detective, the best the department had, known for sniffing out lies like pigs to truffles. The boys left boxes of chocolate truffles and plastic pig noses in his locker.

John didn't get the joke.

His standards were gruelling, his tact non-existent, and he was generally given a wide berth by anyone who didn't feel like a double dose of humility first thing in the morning. But John was also the Golden Ticket for every detective looking to make their career; everyone knew six months on the beat with Truffles and you'd have your name in the papers, a promotion, or both. If you survived, that is, and didn't end up on long-term stress leave.

John took the streetcar to work, always the first to arrive and the last to leave, his work ethic too gruelling for anyone to even pretend to match. The other officers would scuttle past his office at the end of the day, tucking their chins into the collars of their coats and pulling down their hats, avoiding eye contact and hoping that John didn't call their name on the way by. Anyone who got pulled into John's office in the evening wasn't making it home for supper, that night.

They'd cross the street and huddle around a table at Bernie's, bitching about the rookies with no grit, and complaining endlessly about John "The Career Maker" Hartley.

Secretly, they all wished they'd been partnered with him.

John's scruples in his work did not apply to his personal appearance. He was unkempt, his beard always a little too scruffy and creeping down his neck, his dark hair greying at the temples and the lines from his permanent scowl etched deep into his forehead. His clothes were often rumpled and thrown on without much thought, his wool winter peacoat a tweed relic to fashion that wasn't even fashionable when he bought it. He had the air of a junk yard German Shepherd about him; built for a purpose, and Lord help you if you got in his way.

When the latest rookie - Genevieve Dubois - turned up at the station coiffed and pressed, in sky-high heels and a designer trench coat to her ankles, the guys laughed themselves hoarse.

Not one of them bet that she'd last the week as John Hartley's new sidekick.

Chief Bob De Gall (who was counting down the days to his retirement) chortled to himself when Genevieve had showed up for her interview with her lip injections and enormous bosom. He didn't stand for that affirmative action nonsense, and knew just who to stick her with to get her out of his department.

John hadn't even spared her a glance when she walked in, just started barking orders at her the same as he would at anyone else. To Bob's surprise, she nodded once and got right to work.

"Why are you wearing those," John snapped at her on their first day in the field, gesturing to her shoes.

"Why are you wearing that?" she retorted, gesturing to his coat.

After a routine pullover, a driver who was clearly drunk panicked and popped out the passenger door, taking off across the median. John tried to run after him but his bad knee gave out, so Genevieve threw off her heels and charged barefoot after the boy - darting around traffic - who she then tackled to the ground.

As John limped over to her, he held up her shoes, dangling by the straps off his finger.

"These still seem like a good idea, Frogger?"

"You should try them, Truffles. Maybe they'll strengthen your knees."

Bob watched in fascination as John and Genevieve bickered day and night, racking up arrests at record highs, heads bowed together pouring over cold cases in their free time. By their third month together, they'd harassed a DNA lab so thoroughly about an unfollowed lead on a ten-year-old cold case that the lab finally bumped the kit up the waitlist and low-and-behold, it was a match.

"Captain Hartley is an exceptional investigator," Genevieve said at the press conference. "It's been an honour to learn from such a distinguished veteran. I've followed his lead on this, he's who you should be directing all of your questions to."

"I'll answer your damn questions," John scowled, "but we all know whose mug you'll be putting on the front page." He jabbed his thumb at Genevieve as a collective chuckle worked its way around the room.

On their one-year anniversary as partners, Genevieve bought John a Hugo Boss trench coat. John tossed her a badge.

"What's this?" she asked, taken aback.

"Congratulations, Lieutenant," he said.

She picked up the shiny badge, her surprise showing even through her Botox, her puffy lips pursed in confusion.

"You've got your pick of the litter now, Frogger," John said, leaning back in his creaky chair, fingers linked behind his head. "You pick the department, you pick the partner."

Genevieve's face fell as she ran her thumb over the golden surface, before sliding it back across the desk.

"I'll learn more working with you than I will by changing my job title," she said.

"Kid, you should take the promotion."

Genevieve draped herself across the cracked leather sofa, pointing her bare toes at the grubby ceiling.

"Have we gotten a court ruling on the Navarro case yet?" she asked.

John blinked back a strange, unfamiliar feeling in his eyeballs, like they were burning. "See for yourself," he said, clearing his throat and tossing her a manilla envelope stuffed with court documents.

For their second anniversary, he had a bumper sticker made up that said Truffles and Frogger.

Genevieve bought him a pair of shiny new shoes.