I’m not happy with myself, or the situation I’ve created.

To even attempt to get anywhere on the Rita Carlisle kidnapping would require a full-scale investigation. But even that likely wouldn’t accomplish anything new, since it’s been done before.

And the most ridiculous thing of all is that I was apparently a key member of the group who conducted this exact investigation back when the case was fresh. I just have my head too far up my memory-free ass to remember it.

In any event, I don’t have the inclination to devote the kind of effort that a full reopening would require, and since I’m starting my job on Monday, I wouldn’t have the time to do so if I wanted to.

So there is no conceivable way for me to get anywhere, and the consequences of that are twofold. For one thing, the pressing personal question that Sean Connor needs an answer to is not going to get answered. I feel bad about that, but I’ll get over it. For another, I’ve unnecessarily raised the hopes of John Nicholson, which bothers me less, because the guy is a convicted murderer and almost definitely an actual murderer.

But there is no sense in prolonging this by going through some motions that don’t get me anywhere. It’s ridiculous for me to conduct some perfunctory interviews with witnesses, especially since I don’t know what the hell I’m even asking.

I’ll look through the case files when I get into the office, to see if anything obvious jumps out at me. It won’t, and then I’ll break the news to Sean at the next meeting. I’ll also go back to the prison to give the same message to Nicholson. He deserves that much.

I call Captain Bradley. “What is it now?” he asks when he picks up the phone. “You want a signing bonus to come back to work?”

I ignore the jab and say, “I changed my mind. I want to start tomorrow.”

“My eyes are filling with tears,” he says. “Nine A.M. There’ll be some paperwork to fill out, and then your shift starts at ten.”

Click.

I call Nate to give him the news as well, and he responds with, “You’re a little bit nuts, you know?”

“I’m aware of that.”

“You want me to pick you up?” he asks.

“No, I’ll drive in with Jessie.”

“She starts at seven.”

“That’s okay,” I say. “I want to look through some files first.”

“They’re locked in my desk.”

“What are?”

“The Carlisle files,” he says.

“How did you know I wanted to look at them?”

“The thinner I get, the smarter I get. I’ll meet you at the office at seven.” Then, “Seven? What the hell are we, dairy farmers?”

“See you then, skinny.”

Jessie isn’t home from work yet, so I decide to surprise her and make dinner. I look at some recipes, and that causes me to reconsider my decision. Instead I will surprise her by taking her out to dinner. Cooking is really not my thing. I can’t remember exactly, but I don’t think it ever was.

She’s fine with going out to eat; we go to a local Paterson restaurant called The Bonfire. It’s been there forever; my father used to tell me about going there after dates in high school.

I am very glad I remember my father.

Once we’re seated, I update Jessie on what I learned, or more accurately didn’t learn, about the Rita Carlisle kidnapping. “There’s just nowhere for me to go with this,” I say. “So I called Captain Bradley and said I’m coming in tomorrow.”

She raises her glass of wine and clinks a toast with my light beer. “To a new start,” she says, “and a perfect segue.”

“What do you mean?”

“There’s something I want to talk to you about. I think it’s time we gave some thought to you getting rid of your apartment and moving into my place permanently.”

“I thought we’ve already been thinking about it?” I ask.

She nods. “Yes, but that was casual thought.” Then, “This is more serious; the second stage of thought.”

It’s taken Jessie a while to completely trust our relationship and my feelings for her. That makes perfect sense; I had broken up with her before the shooting. A teenager that I cared deeply about had been killed, and I sunk into a depression that caused me to withdraw from a great deal of life, Jessie included.

With my memory wiped clean, I met her for what to me was the first time, and fell in love all over again. But her memory is not quite as barren as mine, and she still remembers well the hurt she felt when I broke up with her. So asking me to move in permanently, even though we are sort of, partially engaged, will be a big step when she does so.

“How many stages of thought are there?” I ask

“I don’t know,” she says, taking my hand. “I’ll have to give that some thought.”

“Good idea.”

“And just to be clear, I’m not sure about the ‘you giving up your apartment’ part.”

“I think we’re moving too fast,” I say. “It’s like a whirlwind.”

She laughs. “We’re going to be married, Doug … eventually. Living together seems somehow appropriate. Besides, you’re not the old Doug. You’re more mature, and centered.”

“You make that sound depressing.”

She shakes her head. “Not at all; it’s why we’ve moved into the second thought stage.”

We leave the restaurant and head for Jessie’s house in Englewood. There’s construction on Route 20, so instead we work our way through the east side of Paterson toward Route 4.

We stop at a streetlight at the corner of 18th and Vreeland, and I hear some kind of commotion to the left of us. I look over there, and it’s hard to make out, but it seems like a man and a woman, standing next to a parked car, having a loud argument.

I turn back to see if the light has changed, and Jessie says, “He’s pushing her against the car.”

“Park it,” I say, and I jump out of our car, still standing at the light.

I run across the street, and sure enough, the guy is pushing the woman, and she is withdrawing in fear.

“Police officer!” I yell. “Get your hands off of her!”

He looks at me and says, “Bullshit. You ain’t no cop.”

“I said leave her alone and step away. You’ve been warned.”

“This is my wife,” he snarls. “And you better get your ass away from me, or you’ll get worse than she’s getting.”

Suddenly, our car comes screeching to a halt behind me. Jessie has made a U-turn and pulled right up to us, and she has the brights on, shining into the guy’s eyes.

“Shit!” he yells, and turns to the woman. “Get in the damn car.”

He opens the door and tries to push her in roughly. She’s resisting, and hits her head against the door and falls to the ground. She screams in pain and fear.

I’ve seen and heard more than enough. I move forward and grab the guy, swinging him around and throwing him facedown onto the hood of the car. I throw him harder than I need to, but not as hard as I want to.

The sound that his face and nose make as they hit the hood, and the blood that starts to spread, makes me satisfied that it was hard enough. He yells in pain, but it’s garbled, so maybe I’ve dislodged some teeth in the process. I’m okay with that.

I can hear Jessie calling 911 for the Paterson police, and then moments later she comes over and hands me a pair of handcuffs, which I use on the guy.

The Paterson cops appear moments later, three black-and-whites worth. I identify myself to one of them, but he says that he recognizes me. Fame has its privileges.

Jessie and I both describe what happened, versions that are contradicted in the moment by the woman screaming that her husband didn’t do anything wrong. It’s depressing and might well mean that the guy won’t get charged for this, but Jessie and I both say that we’ll testify. At the very least the asshole won’t be anxious to look in the mirror for a while.

We get back in the car, and I can feel the adrenaline starting to wear off. Jessie asks, “That felt good, didn’t it? I mean your part in it.”

I think for a moment, and then nod. “It did. I wasn’t thinking about what I was doing; I was just doing it. It felt natural. What does that say about me?”

She smiles. “That maybe you’re the old Doug after all. Which isn’t all that bad.”