There’s a woman in my division who talks like an echo and dresses like a clearance rack hallucination. Detective Chandra Landry.
She’s not on my radar because she’s tragically fashionable. She’s on my radar because she’s disgusting.
Let’s start here: she looks like an over-the-hill punk chick who never got the memo that the 90s ended. Still clinging to the “I’m different” vibe like it’s a badge of honor instead of a warning label. Black boots, black slacks, a chain wallet—somehow, she’s both outdated and tragic. Her hair is clearly dyed at home, with boxed rebellion and kitchen sink bleach, the kind of streaks that say “I do things my way” but land somewhere between gasoline fire and accidental science experiment.
She shares drinks—same straw—with Tom, another detective in the squad room. No shame. Not at a concert, not on a date, just sitting at a workstation like it’s 1998 and hepatitis hasn’t been invented yet.
Not full redneck, but you get the sense she uses toilet paper like it’s a napkin and thinks ketchup counts as a vegetable. I’d bet money she owns at least one Monster Energy hoodie and considers chain-smoking a personality. In fact, she chain-vapes in the parking lot. Not casually—ritualistically. Like it’s part of her emotional support routine. You can spot her hunched over her car, surrounded by a fog of peach-flavored filth, sucking on that vape like it owes her rent.
But the real reason she makes my skin crawl? The names. Not her name.
The ones she carries in her mouth like teeth she stole from a grave.
She used to work in Midtown Central—the same festering division where I filed my complaint. And now, like some passive-aggressive medium channeling ghosts, she name-drops her handlers from Midtown Central every time I walk by. Somehow, Chandra always manages to say those names within earshot. Sometimes, I’m walking to the report writing room or grabbing a coffee I don’t want, and there she is, behind me—slightly out of breath, phone pressed to her cheek like a badge of relevance.
One afternoon, I caught mid-performance. I was standing next to some clueless detective who probably thought “politics” was just what you call office rumors. Chandra Landry sidled up to him—didn’t look at me, didn’t acknowledge me—just launched into a casual chat right next to my ear. “Yeah, Midtown Central was always like that,” she said. Pause. “Midtown Central had that same vibe.” Another pause. “Well, when I was at Midtown Central…”
Three times. Same phrase. She said it like she was trying to summon a demon, like if she repeated it enough, the walls would close in around me and the ghosts of Heather and Carla would drag me back down the elevator. Then—she winked at him. Like they were sharing some private joke. Except the guy looked confused, like someone just waved semaphore flags in his face. He blinked, smiled awkwardly, and nodded like he understood. But I saw the whole thing. Every beat. Every pause. Every calculated emphasis. What a clown. She thought she was clever. She thought she was subtle. But watching Chandra Landry try to be slick is like watching a possum attempt ballet. It’s messy, its’ sad, and it’s going to end in a garbage can. Nice using that confused detective as a decoy, Chandra.
Loud enough to be heard.
Quiet enough to be denied.
A game of plausible deniability played by amateurs with delusions of subtlety.
Chandra never says anything to me. That’s the part that fascinates me. She hovers. She floats around like a reminder, not a person. A paper cut that keeps reopening. One day she laughed in the hallway, fake and airy, while talking to someone else. She dropped Fred’s name mid-laugh like it was the punchline to an inside joke I didn’t ask to be part of.
Is it intimidation? Flattery? Gossip disguised as friendliness?
I don’t know, and honestly, I don’t care.
I’ve never seen someone use other people’s names like currency. She carries them like accessories.
And I see right through it.
“Yeah, I just talked to Heather’s husband.”
“Carla said that too.”
“Back at Midtown Central…”
Always loud enough to catch my ear.
Always quiet enough to deny.
Sometimes she fake-talks on her phone just to drop their names like breadcrumbs on a trail to nowhere. You can hear the smugness wedged between syllables. It’s not even subtle. It’s lazy manipulation dressed up as casual conversation.
She never says anything to me. She’s not brave.
She just orbits.
A failed satellite trying to signal home with gossip and vape breath.
She laughs in the hallway like she’s in on something, like she knows things. But she doesn’t.
She walks like she’s important. But she’s not. She’s just fast enough to stay in your peripheral, like a rat with Wi-Fi. One day she wore a jacket with flames on the sleeves. Actual flames. I didn’t know they still made those. It looked like something Guy Fieri threw out in 2004.
If I had to describe her in one sentence? She’s what happens when passive-aggression goes through a bad breakup, dyes its hair in the bathroom and moves into a studio apartment with a ferret.
I don’t confront her. I don’t need to.
I’ve lived long enough in this department to know one thing: People like Chandra always out themselves.
So let her name-drop.
Let her share straws with human fungus.
Let her hover like a stink that never gets fully Febreezed.
She thinks she’s got secrets.
But all I see is someone desperate to be relevant—someone still clinging to the last time she mattered. Yes, Chandra is a failed satellite of relevance, orbiting the office like she owns it, but all anyone sees is a desperate clown flailing in last decade’s wardrobe.
