Post by Det. Dexter Sterling on Apr 30, 2014 18:49:45 GMT -6
"Alright, thank you." Dexter politely said to the nurse who had informed him the doctor would be in to finish the medical assessment. The medical records had been transferred and the few tests the new Kalispell PD detective needed had been finished. All that remained was a doctor to tie everything together and clear him for duty. Buttoning up his shirt, Dexter went to sit on the small chair in the corner of the exam room to wait.
Dexter had done this many times before. In Los Angeles he had to get a health assessment yearly and injuries on the job just seemed to follow him around. He'd met with so many medical examiners over the past six years he could practically recite his medical record verbatim. A routine traffic stop his rookie year had resulted in four bullet wounds, one of which missed his heart by centimeters. Then there was the drug bust that got him stabbed, the gang raid that ended up with his flying through a plate glass window and, finally, the serial rapist that damn near took a couple fingers after attacking with a pen, of all things. In spite of his injuries, Dexter had been extremely lucky. Thus far he'd suffered no permanent side effects save for the bits of scar tissue each encounter had left. Overall, he was a healthy 28 year old.
With a low sigh to himself Dexter glanced over the walls of the exam room. It was the same as so many others he'd seen in his time. It was procedure, after all, when transferring to a new department so he was cooperative, if not a touch impatient. He was eager to get to work. There was a lot he had to learn and the sooner he could get to it the better. Reaching to the small wicker bin that contained a few months old magazines, Dexter plucked a tattered Sports Illustrated from the pile and opened it.
Dexter had done this many times before. In Los Angeles he had to get a health assessment yearly and injuries on the job just seemed to follow him around. He'd met with so many medical examiners over the past six years he could practically recite his medical record verbatim. A routine traffic stop his rookie year had resulted in four bullet wounds, one of which missed his heart by centimeters. Then there was the drug bust that got him stabbed, the gang raid that ended up with his flying through a plate glass window and, finally, the serial rapist that damn near took a couple fingers after attacking with a pen, of all things. In spite of his injuries, Dexter had been extremely lucky. Thus far he'd suffered no permanent side effects save for the bits of scar tissue each encounter had left. Overall, he was a healthy 28 year old.
With a low sigh to himself Dexter glanced over the walls of the exam room. It was the same as so many others he'd seen in his time. It was procedure, after all, when transferring to a new department so he was cooperative, if not a touch impatient. He was eager to get to work. There was a lot he had to learn and the sooner he could get to it the better. Reaching to the small wicker bin that contained a few months old magazines, Dexter plucked a tattered Sports Illustrated from the pile and opened it.