The ride to the station is quiet except for the low static and intermittent chatter on the police radio. Mason and I don’t talk much, which is just as well. I hate feeling like he has the upper hand. I have to remind myself this is not about our relationship. I will exhaust myself without someone else to talk to, or to be silent with. I need a partner.
Even after all these months together, I sometimes still feel shy around him, more so than when we met. Maybe I’m afraid he’ll discover something about me that he doesn’t like. Maybe I’m afraid I won’t find anything about him that I don’t like. What can I say? Everything about him gets me. His smile: his teeth as straight as they could be without any orthodontia. His hands: the skin rough where it should be; his touch still soft. And his voice: when we’re lying in bed talking about nothing and everything, and it feels like we’re the only ones awake in the whole city. Even when I’m mad at him I can’t help but find his boyish curls endearing. Short of shaving his head, he can’t get rid of them. I love the curls, in part because he doesn’t. Apparently, “boyish” isn’t a compliment.
I look at him out of the corner of my eye, so he won’t notice. I think he’s smiling. It makes me nervous. Why is he smiling?
Was I right—is he going to bring me in like a trophy? Parade me through the station, nodding at the other guys behind my back? It wasn’t easy, he’ll tell them after I’m gone. She’s a handful. They’ll gather like the press around the President, mouths open, taking mental notes as Mason recounts the cunning details of my apprehension. He’ll strut around with odorless shit.
Damn him. I have to say something. I know what he’s up to. He’s not my partner. He works alone.
I turn toward him, prepared to let him have it, but before I open my mouth, I take another look, and I realize I am wrong. He’s squinting. Not smiling, rather, trying to see. I should know better; his expressions are calculated to get information, not to give it. He feels me looking at him, and puts his hand on my leg. As we cruise up Lake Shore, the mid-morning sun glares off the lake. I don’t say a thing.
When we get to the station, I turn a cold shoulder to my escort. There’s no one outside and most of the squads are out for the morning rush, but you never know who’s watching. It’s risky dating in this workplace. We’re all supposed to be on the same side, but we’re not. Not really.
Mason and I enter through the side door and take the back halls to Sergeant MacInerny’s office. Mason stops outside the Sarge’s door and looks me in the eye just long enough to make a connection. Then he knocks.
“Come in,” MacInerny calls out. Mason opens the door. Sarge hangs up his phone when he sees me. He looks like he’s working on less sleep and an even bigger headache than I am.
“Thank you, Detective Imes,” Sarge says. “I commend you for taking time out from your important duties in homicide to retrieve this stray. Sit down, Samantha.”
I know I’m in trouble when he calls me that. So does Mason, because he closes the door behind me without setting foot in the office.
“Sit down,” Sarge says again. I do. Then he doesn’t say anything, and resumes whatever paperwork he’d been doing. I try to focus on something else in the room and let him finish up, but the window behind him is a bright frame that makes my eyes tear no matter where I look. Anyway, I’ve been in this situation so many times that I’ve basically memorized the titles on the bookshelves to my right.
I reread the placard on his desk: The first thing we do, let’s kill all the lawyers.—Shakespeare. I wonder if Sarge has ever been to a play.
I’m picturing him in a box seat at the Goodman sporting a tux, a cream-colored scarf, and theater binoculars when he throws down his pen and takes off his reading glasses.
“I’ll assume Imes filled you in on what transpired yesterday morning after you left the hospital,” he says.
“Enough of it,” I say. “I apologize.”
“Too late for that. I’ve got the captain and half the higher-ups in the district coming at one-thirty.”
“Today?” I look at the clock: it’s not even nine-fifteen.
“You have something more important to do? You wanted me to postpone, you should have stayed put. They heard about the number you pulled. You’re lucky I talked them into a meeting. They want you locked up.”
“My partner died. What do they expect me to do?”
“Oh, I don’t know, follow procedure, maybe? Understand, Sam: They’re not interested in your feelings. They’re looking at the facts, and the fact is, you left the hospital without permission. To them this is a case, just like any other, and one that could make a mockery out of the department.”
“God forbid a cop should act like a human being.”
“Your so-called human reaction could be construed as an attempt to flee.” Sarge comes around and sits on the corner of his desk. This is something he does when he wants to keep what he says off the record. Last time he sat there was to give me advice after I threw a fit about Fred’s shift change. Actually, I threw a coffee cup through Fred’s squad window. With coffee in it.
“Look, Smack,” Sarge says, stretching his neck, “I don’t think you understand the gravity of what’s going on here. If you keep acting squirrelly, someone is going to think this was more than an accident.”
“It wasn’t an accident! It was Marko Trovic. Why aren’t you listening to me?”
“Come on, Smack. I’m on your side, but you’ve got to play your part.”
“Which is what? To pretend it wasn’t Marko Trovic?”
“I expect you to give them a coherent account of what happened Tuesday night without theories or antics. You have to tell them what you remember, not what you think. You start speculating, and we’re in for one hell of a ride with the DA. They’ve been waiting for an excuse to put us through the wringer. Your job is already on the line. You tell them the truth.”
“If I tell them the truth, I have to tell them I think it was Trovic.”
“You can’t solve this case, Samantha. You’re a part of it. You tell them about this Trovic business, they’ll walk out of here with more questions, and they’ll direct half of them to the Sun Times. We have to keep this among us. We have to let our guys be able to investigate.”
“So, the truth, minus Marko Trovic.”
“You’ve got a good four hours to sit here and figure out what that is.” Sarge gets off his desk, opens a drawer, and tosses me a pack of Camels. “If I were you,” he says, “I’d be nice to them. I’d make it so they don’t have to come back.”
“You want me to sit here all morning, and then you expect me to pretend I like these assholes?”
Over five hours later I’m smoking the last Camel in the pack and I’ve just spilled my guts to the Sarge, Captain Jackowski, and an overdressed female attorney with a distracting hairstyle that should be against her profession. Captain Jack has a better ’do. And he’s an old balding Polack.
Two fairly inoffensive advisers from Homicide are running the show. One of them acts like he has to pee, the way he fidgets in his chair. I’ve had at least a pot of coffee since my talk with Sarge and I’m not half as jittery as this guy.
I don’t think the other adviser has had any caffeine ever, because he seems perfectly content to respond to my statement by reading every damn word of his report out loud, painfully, in the most monotonous voice I’ve ever heard. And he keeps prefacing everything with “Our report.” Like this:
“Our report states Officer Flagherty was the first officer on the scene, and ordered Officer Blake to secure the scene while he attempted, unsuccessfully, to revive Officer Frederick Maloney. Officer Hauser tended to your head wound until medics arrived, at which time they determined your vitals stable and transported you to Saint Vincent’s Hospital.” And: “Our report indicates that Officer Maloney died from a gunshot wound to the posterior mediastinal cavity, a wound that was inflicted from above and behind to an area not protected by his vest.”
This is some interrogation. I assume he’s working his way up to some piece of information that will contradict my statement, which I felt was a fairly thorough recollection of everything that happened up until the time I was knocked out. (Minus, of course, my belief that Trovic killed Fred. I also left out our conversation about my love life.) Everyone seems interested, though; for once even Jackowski acts like this is an important place to be.
Then the adviser says, “Our report says residue taken from your uniform indicates you fired your weapon, a thirty-eight-caliber service revolver, which was found empty. The bullets recovered from the walls at the scene match the rifling in your gun.” I want to rip that damn report out of his hands and see if he has anything to say for himself. At this point, though, I decide to remain civil.
“I told you,” I say as evenly as possible, “I fired my gun when I believed someone else was in the room.”
The adviser looks mildly irritated, like he’s trying to ignore an offensive smell. He turns away from me and says, “The ballistics report concludes that the bullet extracted from Officer Maloney’s body also matches the rifling in Officer Mack’s gun.”
Well, that takes care of that. I’m fucked.
“So you don’t care what I say. You think I did it.”
The attorney settles back in her chair. “The facts show it.” She tilts her head and makes sure she has everyone’s attention before she says, “What I want to know is whether or not you meant to.”
Did she just accuse me of murder? I look around to see if everyone else is as appalled as I am.
“You think I killed Fred on purpose?” I ask.
“You don’t have to say anything,” the fidgety adviser pipes in, like he’s my best friend. But I do, I have to say something to this cocky bitch, and to these administrative drones, and to the guys who are supposed to be behind me.
“You weren’t there,” I say. “None of you people were there. Don’t you hear what I’ve been saying? I know who did this, and it was the guy who gave me this—” I point to my head. “The fact is, your report is fucked. I did not stick my gun in the back of my own partner’s vest and shoot him. It was Marko Trovic, the fucking chauvinist, racist pedophile we were there to arrest.” I see Sarge trying to make eye contact with me, but I’m not done.
“He shot Fred. I thought I shot him, but apparently I missed. I also missed the part where you completely ignored the possibility that someone else was in that house at all, and took it upon yourselves to blame me. So here’s what I think: Trovic must have knocked me out and used my gun to kill Freddy. Now I have a question for you: Why isn’t anyone looking for him?”
The advisers scramble to find some telling page in their report, trying to explain the bomb I just dropped.
“We’re just trying to put the pieces together,” the one with the monotone says.
“We’re following procedure,” his partner echoes, but I want to know:
“What kind of fucking procedure gives the guy who killed my partner a good day’s head start?”
The attorney revels in the mess she’s made while my guys chime in with “This is a sensitive matter” and “We need to decide the best way to proceed” and “We have to consider the family.”
“The family? What about this fucking family?” I ask, pointing to myself and then the Sarge. I’m getting really riled up, especially when Jackowski shakes his head at the attorney as though he has no idea what I’m talking about.
Sarge puts his hands up like they’re a disclaimer. I can’t believe he would dismiss me like that. Then he says, “Sit down, Sam.”
I don’t know what else to do. I have no one on my side. I sit.
“Counsel?” Captain Jackowski asks. “What’s the bottom line?”
The attorney pulls out her own report, from which she reads:
“The death of Frederick J. Maloney is currently under investigation. Whether Officer Mack is a victim, a witness, or a suspect, at this time is unknown. What is known is that Officer Mack was present at, and injured during, this incident. Therefore, it is required she take an administrative leave until the situation has been clarified.”
They all accept it, even Sarge, like she just read from the Bible.
“You can’t clarify anything without me,” I say.
The one with the monotone jumps back in with that damn folderful of papers. “Our report from the hospital indicates a concussion due to blunt trauma to the head. Samples taken from Miss Mack’s wound show traces of wood varnish from the floor at the scene.”
“I didn’t hit my head on the floor. That’s ridiculous. I was pushed and I fell on my knees—” I start to pull up my pant leg, but no one even looks at me. They’re more interested in looking at photos of my head.
“Further,” he says, “the nature of the wound led the doctor to suggest that Miss Mack may experience confusion and other trauma-related effects. He recommends that her condition be closely monitored by a qualified healthcare professional.”
“I’ll take it”—the attorney throws her pen down—“her story is skewed.”
“We’re recommending a diagnostic test for post-traumatic stress disorder, as well as treatment,” says the adviser with the small bladder.
“That’s why you can’t look for Trovic?” I ask. “Because you think it’s all in my head?”
“We’re not looking because the evidence just isn’t there,” the other one says impatiently. “Scabs on your knees aside . . .”
The monotone shoots his fidgety partner a critical glance and then he says, “Our report states that Officer Flagherty did not find any evidence that supports your claim that anyone else was present at the time of the incident.”
“Flagherty couldn’t find his own feet if he was wearing shoes,” I say. “You need a detective. An investigation. A suspect. Just like they do on TV.”
The attorney lets out an overdone sigh to let everyone know she doesn’t want to hear my opinion anymore. I know Sarge agrees with me about Flagherty and I think Jackowski does too, but it’s his job to be diplomatic, so he smiles at the attorney when he asks, “When can Samantha go back to work?”
“We’re going to require a medical and psychiatric evaluation after a period of thirty days,” the attorney says, with a distinct emphasis on psychiatric. “In the meantime, she should see a state-provided professional, as suggested by your advisers.” She turns to me. “Your superiors will determine the grounds for your reinstatement,” she says, “once the case is closed.”
“So you want me to see a shrink,” I say, “and while you figure out whether or not I’m crazy, the killer gets away?”
The attorney looks at Captain Jack like even the dumbest person knows how these things work.
“Well, that’s bullshit.” I say, and stand up. “I’m not sitting on someone’s couch for a month while you guys push papers. If you’re not going to find Trovic, then I am. Put that in your report.”
No one makes a move to stop me, so I slam the door on my way out.
Once I’m in the hall, I grab my head. I was so pissed in there I’d forgotten about my headache. I start to feel a little queasy and I’m thinking about hiding out in the bathroom, but Sarge catches up to me before I get there.
“Sam, what the hell is wrong with you? I told you to be smart about this. You know our advisers are just trying to make peace with that attorney.”
“All those assholes in there think I did it! Those legal guys? They’re some pair. They’re supposed to help me? They treated me like I was just let out of a straitjacket. And Jackowski acted like he’s never seen me before. So did you.”
“We’re all on the same team, Smack,” he says.
“No, we’re not. The advisers aren’t even in the game. They’re on the sidelines taking stats. And that attorney was in a completely different fucking sport.”
Sarge looks both ways in the hall before he leans over and lowers his voice.
“You’re making a spectacle of yourself when you should be using that smart mouth of yours to pray to God they call this an accident. Do you know what’ll happen if this gets turned over to the superintendent’s office? You could be in some serious trouble.”
I do not feel the need to lower my voice. In fact, I raise it. “You agree with them? You think I should take some time off and come to terms with the fact that I’m nuts?”
“I’m sorry, Sam,” he says and puts his hand on my shoulder. “You don’t have a choice.”
I remove his hand.
“I don’t think you’re nuts,” he says to me as I do all I can to walk away with some semblance of grace. “I just think you need time to grieve. Go see the shrink, let this die down, and we’ll make sure you keep your badge.”
“That won’t bring Fred back.”
“Neither will a wild-goose chase for some guy we can’t even place at the scene,” he says. “Go home, Smack. Take some aspirin. Let us work this out.”
“I can’t take aspirin,” I say, and make for the front door.