When I wake up I’m not sure how I ever fell asleep, or if I made a conscious effort to do so. I’m on the couch and there’s a bottle of Tylenol PM next to my empty cocktail glass on the coffee table, so I can put it together pretty quickly. I step on a near-empty bag of Doritos at the foot of the couch when I get up. Must have been my middle-of-the-night meal. I really did a number on myself, because I have no memory of eating them. At least I finally slept.
The sun is up, but it hasn’t penetrated the low cloud cover. Lights from the high rise next to mine shine brighter. It’ll be a short, gray day. The shorter the better.
I smoke four cigarettes before I finish my first cup of coffee. My head aches, this time in a familiar way, and I know it’s my own fault. All I want to do is take the rest of those Tylenol and wake up next week. I don’t want to go to a funeral.
I get dressed. My uniform feels like a costume. It’s hot and it doesn’t fit and I know I’ll smell like a distillery as soon as I start sweating. I button up the shirt just enough so my star hangs flat.
I’m ready to go, but I’m not going. I have another cup of coffee and try not to look at the clock. It’s only getting closer to eleven. If I don’t leave soon, I’ll be late.
I remind myself that Mason is working on the case. Hopefully it’ll be cleared up soon, but not soon enough. Not before they bury Fred.
I light another smoke and think about how much Fred detested the habit. I never heard him hassle any of the guys about it, so I don’t know why he was always on my case. It was like he had special rules for me. I guess it’s because I was his rookie. I’d like to think it was because he loved me.
I swear the only reason I finally leave the house is because I’m out of smokes. Go figure.
Outside it’s not as cold as it looked from my window. Most of the snow has melted, and the slush has made a mess out of the sidewalks. I wish it would snow again, to cover up the brown grass. Everything looks dead.
I get in the car and drive up Clark to the White Hen. Inside, everybody acts so busy and normal, en route to better places. I buy a pack of Camels and get out of the way.
I wait to pull out of my parking spot as a stream of traffic rushes by. I think about all these people in all these cars whose lives are exactly the same as they were yesterday and the day before. All these people who didn’t kill their partners.
I turn left at Devon. The church is a few blocks up. The steeple pokes out of the skyline like a knife. I try not to look at it.
When I get to the church, I slow down to see who’s there. The guy behind me starts honking and I can’t very well just pull into the lot, so I drive right past it. I light a smoke and keep driving.
How far would I have to go to get away from all of this? I probably wouldn’t make it past the suburbs. My conscience is like a leash. I always seem to be tied to something that requires me to return and redeem myself.
I could run from my problems, but no matter where I go, I’ll just end up with a whole set of new ones. I’d drive until I ran out of gas; someone would pull over to help me, and that same someone would steal my hubcaps, my spare tire, and my wallet while he suggested that on some greater level we were meant to meet at this juncture in the road and in our lives, and could he call me sometime?
So I turn around. There’s that steeple again. I almost laugh.
When I get to the church this time, I slow down and put on my turn signal. I’m just going to fucking go already, let them all think what they want. Then I see the squads, the officers lined up outside, the flags, and the marquee with his name: “Frederick James Maloney.” I’m holding up traffic and no one honks, but I can’t turn in. I cannot go in there.
I’m the only one in the bar at O’Shea’s this early. Marty, the bartender whose brother owns the building, is splitting his time between me and a few lunchers in the main room. I’m splitting my time between a Jameson and a cigarette. I like this place; it’s dark enough so you can only tell the time of day when someone comes in or leaves. The walls are draped with neon flags advertising the latest fruit-flavored cocktail that’s probably consumed only by sorority girls at college bars. Photos of the neighborhood in the days when it was mostly Irish blend into the dark walls under the obnoxious ads, along with old Schlitz signs. I wonder if they sell Schlitz anymore. I wonder if they even make it. The place is comfortable. Safe. Probably because a lot of the cops in the district hang out here—which means I’m safe from them today.
Marty ducks into the kitchen with some empty plates. His cheeks are pocked, and I used to think it was the result of teenage acne, but now I’m pretty sure it’s life eating away at him, a little every day. I mean, really, to whom does an old, unmarried bartender complain?
“What happened to Vegas?” Marty asks when he comes back.
“I’m sure it’s still there,” I say and rattle my glass for another round. I’d forgotten about our defunct getaway. Mason and I booked a quick weekend last month, but he had to leave town at the last minute for some case he wouldn’t talk about. I should’ve gone to Vegas by myself.
“You should eat something,” Marty advises. “No more booze. How about some chowder?”
“No, thanks,” I tell him. Marty slides a basket of saltines down the bar anyway. He flips on the TV above the bar for the noon news. Precisely what I don’t want to watch.
The front door swings open and some curly-haired guy shakes out his umbrella. Apparently the snow turned to rain. The front of the guy’s shirt is wet where his gut sticks out. I guess the umbrella isn’t as round as he is. He takes a seat down the bar and wipes his face with a napkin. I can’t tell if he keeps looking at me or at the TV.
Marty comes back with a bowl of chowder. Trying to ignore it, I say—
“What’s that guy staring at?”
Marty does his best to avoid answering. It takes me a second before it registers that I’m still in my uniform. Classy.
“Can I have a beer with this?” I ask. Hoping Marty will oblige me, I unwrap some crackers.
“Will you turn that up?” asks the curly-headed guy. Marty does, just in time to hear:
“. . . Co-workers and the city mourn the loss of Officer Frederick Maloney.” The last thing I want to do is look at the TV, but I can’t help it. The cute little newscaster smiles like she’s telling us about a parade instead of the end of Fred’s life. If only it were mine.
“Our Jackie Davies is at Saint Matthew’s Church with an exclusive report. What’s the latest, Jackie?”
The screen switches to a bundled-up newswoman standing in front the church. I won’t miss the funeral after all.
“There has been a surprising development in the Rogers Park case that rocked the Chicago PD Tuesday night.” They cut to a photo of Fred as she continues, “Inside sources have revealed to me this morning that Officer Maloney’s death is going to be listed as a case of friendly fire.” As I process this information, I see my own photo on the screen.
There I am in my blues, with the dumbest smile: friendly for sure.
Now that curly-haired guy has a reason to stare. I can feel his eyes on me like the bullets in my dream.
“Officer Samantha Mack, pictured here, has a short but stellar record with the Twenty-third District. Last year, she arrested an Irving Park prowler when she responded to a call at an incorrect address. She transposed the house numbers, and caught the thief in the act. That mistake made her a hero; did her latest mistake cost Maloney his life?”
The stupid dispatcher was the one who mixed up the numbers. I feel like I should explain myself to the guy down the bar and to Marty and anyone who’ll listen, but I can’t speak when I see, behind the reporter at the church, six officers carrying Fred’s coffin down the steps. My partner, gone forever. How do I explain that?
The reporter jumps in the way of the scene and says, “And I quote, ‘Maloney died from a gunshot wound.’ And that gunshot just may have come from his partner.”
I feel like she’s staring at me too, through the damn television, so I force myself to look down the bar at the curly-haired guy. He doesn’t look away as he sips a draft beer. I can’t tell if he sympathizes with me or loathes me. Without emptying his mug, he answers me by dropping a five on the bar, getting up, and leaving. The swinging door offers a brief glimpse of daylight.
Back on TV, the reporter goes on about the police not saying anything definitive and the investigation pending and some other bits of pseudo-information. They do a close-up of one of the pallbearers. It’s Mason, in uniform. It’s drizzling on his hat and his face is wet, but not with tears. He was selected for his strength.
I tune out the rest of the report, but I can’t help watching my partner’s coffin being loaded into the back of a hearse.
Mason was right. I should have been there.
Marty puts a Bud Light in front of me.
“Sorry, Sam. This one’s on the house.”
I nod, though I don’t want it. I can’t feel the sting of the alcohol anymore. I can’t feel much of anything. I don’t know what to do with myself, or with what I think happened.
I am an outsider, and the only way I’m going to get back in is to find Trovic, because someone else has to take the blame for Fred’s death, accidental or otherwise.
What would Fred do? Probably ask his wife for advice. Not that she’d have a clue; she knows as much about police work as I do about day spas. I doubt she’d want to talk to me anyway, seeing as I’m the reason she’s attending a funeral instead of a cooking class.
I shouldn’t be so mean. I am sure she’s genuinely upset that she has to open her home to a bunch of cops this afternoon. Assuming that’s where she’ll hold the reception after the service. Assuming someone told her to hold a reception.
I’ll bet every cop in the district will be there. And every one of them knows by now that I think Trovic is responsible. Maybe one of them, someone who was at the scene, or someone who worked with Fred, will agree with me.
Mason said I should go to the funeral; would it be a mistake to show up at the reception? If I don’t show my face and let everyone know that I intend to make this right, who will? Even if Trovic is caught tomorrow and I’m cleared, I’ll still be the one who didn’t have the guts to say good-bye. And I owe Fred so much more than good-bye.
If I go to the reception and pay my respects, at least I’ll prove one thing: I’m not giving up.
I’ve had crazier ideas. I finish my drink and head out into the cold rain.