Here’s the part where I feel sorry for myself. “Grieve,” as Sergeant MacInerny put it.
I get a bottle of Jameson and a pack of Camels from the liquor store on the corner. I know: no alcohol. Tell that to another Irish cop in mourning.
I go into my place and turn on the TV for company. Then I put on some radio station that doesn’t play sad songs, and I set out to forget what I can’t remember in the first place.
The first sip of Jameson seems foreign, because it’s hard alcohol and it’s broad daylight. I’m used to finishing my shift in the wee hours and stopping by O’Shea’s for last call. I’m used to the dark. Hell, I’m used to working.
But I’m also used to Fred being alive. I finish my first drink like a dose of cough medicine.
I pour drink number two and then I go through my closet looking for something else to wear. Nothing seems warm enough. I take my drink into the bathroom and run hot water for a bath. I test the temperature with my toes; the water resists a layer of grime on my feet. They need scrubbing after weeks of neglect and long hours in black socks. I run the shower instead. I’ll feel better if I can just get rid of this chill on my skin, this residue that sticks to my goose bumps. It hangs on me like the smell of death.
I stay in the shower until I’m waterlogged. When I get out, the steam in the bathroom feels like a cold fog. I wipe the mirror down to see myself. Bad move.
I have always thought of myself as an attractive woman, looking younger than my age. Maybe because I got a late start growing up. Maybe because I was a rookie at thirty, when most cops make detective, and most women have already made homes and babies. Maybe because I work with a bunch of guys who find the opposite sex a fascinating, mysterious being—especially one who’s single.
Now, in the mirror, I’m afraid I would only turn heads in fear of making eye contact. My blond dye job is brassy and riddled with split ends, and when I take it out of its ponytail, it parts right where it’s shaved bald for the stitches. My lips are chapped and split at one corner. My gray eyes are inset by puffy lids, from crying or the concussion or both. And there are wrinkles. I see wrinkles. I have aged overnight.
I dry off, put on my flannel robe, and get back to my drink. The whiskey is smoother this time, and I feel a little better, but I still don’t feel clean. I need to talk to someone. I page Mason. When he doesn’t call back right away, I know he won’t for a while. I hope he’s working. Who will I talk to?
I start to deal with the idea of attending the funeral tomorrow. I should go, but I’m afraid. If I don’t go, people will think I’m selfish or I don’t care or I’m embarrassed. Or I’m guilty. But I don’t know if I can handle it. Maybe I only think I should go so I won’t feel guilty about not going. If I don’t, maybe I’ll regret it.
I’m complicating the simple truth. Fred was my friend. I should be there.
But what if I get there and I’m worried about what everyone thinks? It’ll only take a few sideways glances, a whisper from one wife to another. I’ll be wrecked. I’ll be more wrecked.
I put some water in drink number three because I feel a little tipsy and I don’t want Mason to pick up on it when he finally calls. I have to be confident about what happened at the station today, and I have to trust that he’s doing everything he can to help me. I don’t want him to think I doubt him. Or myself.
The sun is setting and the radio is starting to repeat songs. I turn on every light in the place and shut off the TV. The news is probably starting. I’m probably on it.
“A fatal accident,” some reporter will say. My bullet in Fred’s body. Case closed.
But how? Fred thought he’d been shot and I couldn’t find a wound. Fred said he shot Trovic. I heard two shots. I knew Trovic was there. I thought I shot him. So many gunshots, and then only one wrong bullet—it’s like a memory in a funhouse, all backward and impossible.
And none of it matters, because Trovic got away. It was close range, but somehow, I completely missed him. Completely fucking missed him.
Okay, I say somehow—I admit I’m a lousy shot. But I emptied my gun, and Trovic still managed to clear the hell out of there.
But he couldn’t have, not right away, because he got around me and knocked me out. He must have been behind me when I fired. That’s how I got the concussion. And then he must have shot Fred with my gun. But my gun was empty, wasn’t it? Anyone who wants to knows we all use the same service guns in our department—supposed to make it easier in the field, if we need ammo. Trovic could have used one of Fred’s bullets in my gun. Oh, God, was Fred alive to watch that sick fuck load my gun?
Am I giving Trovic too much credit? He’s awful, but is he that smart? And how did he get away? I go over the whole thing again. The pieces fit, but they don’t make a picture.
Unless there was someone else. Two guys. Marko Trovic and someone else.
Where the hell is Mason? I have to tell him.
I make drink number four a double, without water, to slow down my brain. I turn off the radio because the songs are like a sick soundtrack to my thoughts. Shiny happy people dancing in circles around my dead partner. And Marko Trovic leading the Locomotion.
With the radio off the silence is just as bad, because now my head is making all the noise. The whiskey isn’t helping, either. I wish I could stop thinking. I wish I could be distracted. I wish Mason were here.
The phone rings after what seems like hours. When I get up to answer I realize I’ve finished my fifth drink, so I put all my efforts toward sobriety.
“What took you so long?” I ask Mason, though I know that’s no way to start.
“I just left the wake. I take it the meeting went well?”
“They want me on leave. MacInerny agreed.”
“Maybe that’s not such a bad thing,” he says. “What’d they say about Trovic?”
“Nothing,” I say. “They think I’m nuts. That I’m confused from the concussion. I think they’re hanging this whole thing on my head because they’re scared the DA will prosecute on the grounds I had intent.”
“Intent to what? Spend the rest of your life in prison? They wouldn’t embarrass themselves.”
“I’m not so sure,” I say.
“Don’t worry about the desk jockeys, Sam. I spent all day in the field. I turned that house on Jarvis upside down, and I came up with enough to prove someone else could have been there with you and Fred. And I convinced Captain Jack to let me handle the case. He’s got me on a short leash with this Trovic thing, but I think I can swing it.”
“Finally some good news.” I think about telling him my news, that I think someone else was there with Trovic, but I don’t want him to question my sanity.
“The funeral’s tomorrow at eleven at Saint Matt’s,” Mason says. “You should be there.”
“I don’t know if I can.” I can’t.
“It’ll clear up any question about your intent.”
While I recognize that Mason’s trying to be positive about this, I want him to feel bad. Like I feel.
“Is that all you care about now?” I ask. “The case?”
“Come on, Sam. You know that’s not true.”
He’s right, but I’m feeling defensive. And alone.
“Will you come over?” I ask.
“I can’t. I’m on my way back to the station. I don’t know how long I’ll be there. Besides, I haven’t been home in days.”
“So you’d rather go home,” I say, like home is where his heart is.
“Why are you riding me here? You should be happy about this. I might be able to get you out of trouble.”
“And we can’t see each other, and we have to keep pretending we don’t even know each other—”
“So what’s different?” he asks.
“You’re right. A normal relationship would be too much.”
“This conversation is headed for hell,” he says. “I’m gonna go.”
I don’t say anything because he’s right. I light a cigarette.
“Don’t drink your way through the service,” he says. “Fred’d want you there.”
“I love you,” I say, knowing the conversation is over, hoping he’ll hear enough disappointment in my voice to change his mind about coming here.
“Not on purpose” is his “I love you too.” He hangs up.
I take a long drag from my smoke. I don’t know why I have to be so flip with Mason. I should be counting my blessings that he’s on the case. I guess I don’t want to let him think he has any control over me. I’ve been cool about our relationship from day one. I couldn’t even say I loved him when he told me the first time. We had just spent the night together and he was out the door, late to a homicide call. He said the words so offhandedly that I wondered if he knew he’d said them out loud, or that he’d said them to me. My gut reaction: Why?
Of course I didn’t ask; in fact I didn’t say anything at all. But he must’ve read my mind, because he smiled that smile of his, and he didn’t wait around for a response. The next day, he slipped a list of reasons in my locker—nothing fancy, just a bunch of random, perfect observations, jotted in his detective’s scrawl. One was the way you twirl your hair when you’re tired. Ever since then, his “I love you” is a constant reminder that putting your head where your heart belongs is senseless. We didn’t fall in love on purpose.
Now, after this, I wonder if he still loves the way I’d eat cold pizza for breakfast, or if my appeal has worn thin. I inhale, another long, lonely drag.
The bottle of Jameson stares back at me from the kitchen table. I still have ice in my glass. The phone will not ring again. I have to be strong. I have to be ready for the funeral tomorrow. I just have to make it through tonight.