Beck pulled into the parking lot and sat for a few minutes as if by pressing pause, she could revert back to the life she’d had a few months ago. After a few minutes of sitting in the silence with only the voices in her head telling her she’d fucked up royally, she decided it would be better to go inside and face her punishment than continue this self-flagellation.
She’d worked out of the White Rock substation since she’d started on the force, only showing up at headquarters for commendation ceremonies and the occasional meeting with the higher-ups. She’d expected she might be transferred to another station after she’d made detective, but this outpost in South Dallas had never figured into her equation. But the cold case unit was located within the walls of this old, off-the-beaten-path building, so this was her new home until she figured out how to get back to the job. The real job.
Unlike the other stations she’d been to, this one didn’t have much in the way of security. The duty officer at the front desk was a youngster with a crew cut whose badge read Officer Foster. She strode over and announced, “I’m here to see Sergeant Mendoza.”
“Name?”
She wasn’t sure if he was joking since her picture had been plastered all over the news, but he had an I’m really serious look about him, so she simply said, “Ramsey.”
He pointed to a short row of chairs. “Have a seat.”
A few minutes later, a short, stocky woman burst out of the office door behind the gatekeeper. “Do not put that man through to me again,” she said to Foster. “There’s only so many ways I can tell him I know nothing.”
“Yes, ma’am.” Foster pointed at Beck. “Ramsey’s here.”
The woman looked her up and down, and Beck didn’t get a good feel for whether she passed the appraisal. Finally, the woman stuck out her hand. “Sergeant Mendoza. Come with me.”
Beck returned the strong grip and followed Mendoza into her office. It was a tight fit, which told her a lot about how cold cases ranked. About what she’d figured.
“Sit,” Mendoza said and then did the same. “So, looks like we’re stuck with each other. I know what you did to pull this assignment.” She pointed at her chest. “Me? I don’t want to be here either, but I’m not here because I ratted out my partner. Now we know something about each other and that’s all the small talk we need to exchange. Understood?”
“Sure.” Beck was ambivalent. She hadn’t expected to make new friends, but other than that she didn’t know what to expect. The cold case squad was anathema. TV shows made it seem like it would be bustling with detectives working diligently to dig up new facts guaranteed to land them a cameo in primetime, but among fellow cops, it was known as a dungeon where careers went to die. She hoped it was merely purgatory, and when she’d done her penance, she’d be free to get back to real work.
“Come on, I’ll show you to your desk.”
She followed Mendoza down a long hallway to the door at the end. Mendoza held the door open, and she walked through into a maze of boxes. She stood still for a moment, a little overwhelmed by the cardboard city that was her new home.
“Don’t worry about it,” Mendoza said. “You won’t even look at most of these.” She pointed to a small desk in the right corner. “That’s for you. Password to the computer is on a Post-it in the desk drawer, and instructions are there too. There’s some pens and pads of paper in the desk. You shouldn’t need anything else. Cell signal in here sucks, so if you want to make a call, you’ll probably need to go outside. Hours are eight to five. Take your meal break whenever you want. I’m going back to my office. Have fun.”
Mendoza was about to shut the door behind her when she thought to ask. “What do you want me to do?”
“Do?” Mendoza grunted. “There’s not much to be done. These cases are unsolvable. You know the drill—if there aren’t any clear leads in the first week, chances are slim there ever will be. This squad is the brainchild of the mayor because he loves all that TV crap about true crime, and we’re here to appease him. Comb through the files, make lists, whatever makes you happy, but all I need is for you to finish filling out the case log. It’s on the computer. Just start where the last person left off.”
The last person. How many other people had funneled through this space on their way back to redemption, and how long a sentence was the norm? She had no idea and focusing on it would only drive her crazy. Time to do her time and be grateful she’d be doing it in peace.
An hour later, she was yawning, and her eyes were blurry, and she was no longer grateful for anything about being stuck alone in this godforsaken place. And she wasn’t even a quarter of the way through the first box. Coffee. That’s what she needed. She walked back to the front of the office. Foster was on the phone, so she looked around but didn’t find any sign of a coffee maker or any other creature comforts.
“What are you looking for?”
She turned at the sound of his voice. His tone was neutral, and she couldn’t get a read on whether he harbored the same level of hostility as the rest of the force had against her, but at this point she was becoming immune to it. “Coffee.”
He raised a thermos. “Home brew. We don’t have a machine.” He unscrewed the top of this thermos. “You want some? My wife makes it special for me.”
Surprised at the generous offer, she decided she had to accept. Other than Mendoza, he was the first fellow cop who’d spoken to her voluntarily since Jack had been arrested. “I’d love some, but I don’t have a mug.”
He unscrewed the cup off the thermos, poured it full of delicious smelling coffee, and handed it to her. “Don’t have any condiments.”
She raised the cup to her lips and took a sip. “Don’t need any with coffee this good. Your wife must love you.”
He cracked a grin. “Yeah, I think so.”
“What did you do to get stuck here?”
He rolled his chair back and pointed at the cast on his leg. “Fell off a damn fence while in pursuit. Not only did I break my leg, but I got bit by a damn dog.”
“Ouch. Hope you caught the perp.”
He nodded. “I fell right on top of the bony bastard, which probably didn’t help the whole leg situation.”
“Prognosis?”
“My next PT check in is in two weeks and I’ll find out then if I can get back on the street. I hear I’m getting assigned to the White Rock subdivision.”
“Some good people there,” she said, wondering if any of those good people would say the same about her anymore. It wasn’t like any of her old buddies were reaching out these days. “I guess you know why I’m here.”
“You turned in your partner.”
“I told the truth about what happened.”
“Different explanation, same result.”
He was right, but she wanted to protest, explain her actions, but it was pointless. No one seemed interested in the distinction. It wasn’t like Jack had done something in secret and she’d had a choice not to speak up. A real person had been gunned down with real bullets. Aldridge was dead now and everyone knew Jack did it. She’d told the truth about what she’d seen, and Jack had put her in that position by not turning on his body cam or the car cam. What happened to him next was up to the grand jury, the DA, a judge, and jury. All she’d done was report the truth when she was questioned about it. She’d expect no less from Jack if their roles were reversed.
But if their roles were reversed, this never would’ve happened. If she’d been the one driving, she wouldn’t have made the stop in the first place under such bogus pretenses.
So why had Jack?
She’d gone over the last few months in her head many times, looking for signs he’d been crossing the line, and in retrospect, she could see some. He’d become increasingly belligerent with suspects, quick to anger. But nothing she’d identified at the time as a direct line to abuse of force, and certainly nothing actionable. She’d spent more time with him than anyone else other than his wife, and sometimes more than her. How was it possible she hadn’t seen this coming?
She turned back to Foster who’d resumed whatever he was doing between sips of coffee. As if he could feel her gaze, he looked up and met her eyes.
“Something on your mind?”
“Maybe I’m curious about why you’re talking to me when everyone else thinks I have the plague.”
“They don’t think you have the plague. They’re all thinking ‘shit, that could’ve been me.’”
“Who? Me or Jack?”
He shrugged. “Either. Jack for the ones that cross the line and you for the ones that have seen it but never reported it. You make the first set scared and the second set guilty.”
“Which side are you on?”
“Sides are for dodgeball. Life’s too complicated to divvy things up that way. You did what you felt you had to do and what happens next isn’t up to me or you or your partner.”
“They teach you to be a wise sage in the service?”
He cocked his head, his expression curious. “How’d you know?”
“Lucky guess,” she said, pleased her instincts were still intact. “My brother did a couple of tours. You guys all have a few distinctive tells.”
“Hmm.” He jerked his chin to the back room. “Mendoza will be back soon. Just a warning—she’s not a fan of folks standing around. Assistant chief’s been on her to get that log done, and the wrath flows downhill if you get me.”
She got him, loud and clear. Back to the busy work. The encouraging thing about his comment was that despite Mendoza’s apparent disdain for these cold cases, perhaps the higher-ups really did care about solving them, and the idea of working on something that mattered motivated her to get back to it.
She finished her coffee and set the cup on his desk. She wanted to say something else. Something about how she was grateful he’d spoken to her and not to hurl a threat or merely call her a fucking bitch, but she sensed acknowledging the power imbalance would only make them both uncomfortable. With a simple, “see you later” she turned to the room full of boxes and resumed her miserable clerical work, wishing her troubles could heal as tangibly as Foster’s leg.