A Child is Torn: Innocence Lost (21 page)

Marty was stunned. Not only was Justin talking about marriage, but he was considering moving from the place he had grown up in, the only place he ever called home.

“You’ve really discussed it with her? I mean, seriously? You’re serious?”

“Marty, I’m damn serious. I think
—
no I don’t think, Marty—I
know
I love her. I can’t get enough of her.”

Taking a good look at his friend, Marty couldn’t help but believe him. Justin’s whole demeanor had changed.

Aside from the recent belching, he decided Justin was beginning to act like a grownup. Over the past few weeks, he had turned into a man. Justin was finally leaving his adolescence behind.

Justin’s radio crackled, and then Marty heard his doing the same; they had a call coming in. They stood up and Marty threw down a couple of dollars for a tip.

As they both got into their cars, Marty called out to Justin.

“We’ll talk about this later. You’ll be at Thanksgiving right?”

“You bet!” Justin yelled back.

Justin got into his patrol car, hit the lights and took off. Marty was right behind him.

Jean

Jean and Moran spent four hours on their last call. A domestic dispute between a man and his wife had led to tragedy. The first officers to respond found a male and female with gunshot wounds to their heads, a shotgun inches away from the male’s body. In another room just a few feet away, they discovered a ten-month-old girl sleeping peacefully in her crib.

The couple had recently reunited after a month-long separation. Nothing was clear yet, but after talking to family members and neighbors, Jean and Moran started to put the pieces together. The husband had a drug problem and had recently gotten out of rehab. Wanting to keep her family together, the wife agreed to take him back. Apparently, the man relapsed and the wife asked him to leave again. She had gone to the courthouse to ask for an injunction, but didn’t have enough money on her to pay the fees.

She ran into her neighbor at the courthouse and explained the situation. The neighbor offered to lend her the money, but the woman, possibly having second thoughts, turned her down. When the neighbor arrived home later, she heard the gunshots. Knowing how volatile the situation was, she immediately called 911.

Unable to get in touch with a family member, Jean and Moran waited until social services came to pick up the baby. They were both in a foul mood when they finally pulled away from the house. They stopped for a cup of coffee before they went back to the station.

Looking for some comic relief, they threw out scenarios about what Hennessey was imagining. They were still laughing uncontrollably when they arrived back at the office. Walking into the busy room, Jean noticed the noisy chatter cutting off quickly. She noticed one by one, each man whether seated or standing, turned his back on them, pretending to be busy.

It was Moran who saw him first. Connie’s brother was waiting at his desk.

“Hey, Willie,” Moran greeted him. Willie was a detective in another precinct. “What brings you here?”

Jean stopped in her tracks. She looked at the expression on Willie’s face; she looked around at the other cops in the room. The silence became deafening.

It took a second for Moran to realize something was wrong. Willie did not return his smile. Willie was not here for a coffee break or a casual visit.

Moran’s face lost drained of all color. Shaking his head, he put his hand out to stop Willie from saying what he was here to say.

“My Annie. Not my—oh God, Willie. My Annie.” His voice was breaking.

Jean stood still, not knowing what to do. A feeling of nausea was growing in her stomach. She looked at Willie again. He was shaking his head no.

“No, Joe. Annie’s fine.”

Jean could tell Moran’s heart was beginning to beat again. Color was coming back into his face. “Jesus, Willie. You scared the shit out of me, what the…” He noticed Willie was still staring at him.

“It’s Connie, Joe.”

“What are you talking about? Connie’s fine. She’s fine.”

“She’s had a heart attack, Joe.”

“Heart attack?” Moran shook his head forcefully, “No. What are you talking about? She had a little heartburn the other day, but… where is she? What, did she go to the ER? Come on.”

He grabbed Willie’s arm in an effort to leave, but Willie didn’t budge. Instead he reached out and put his hand on Moran’s shoulder.

“Joe, she… she didn’t make it. She’s gone, Joe.”

Glaring at his brother-in-law, Moran threw Willie’s hand off with a swipe.

“What is this, some kind of joke? It ain’t funny, Willie.” He was starting to lose his temper.

He turned towards Jean. It was the look on Jean’s face that told him
—
this was no joke. Willie had come to tell him his wife was dead.

He slowly sank into a chair, his hands covering his face. Not allowing himself to cry, he composed himself and without looking at anyone, got up again.

“Where is she, Willie?” he asked. The life had been sucked out of him, and his movements became mechanical.

“They took her to St. Katherine’s. She’s at the morgue.” Willie was having trouble getting the words out now; it was his baby sister who was lying in the morgue, lifeless.

Jean reached for his hand. “Joe, if there is anything I can do. I’m so sorry.” She looked up at Willie. “Has anybody tried to contact Annie?”

Willie nodded. “They’re trying to contact her. They’re going to arrange for her transportation home.”

Moran was still in shock, not really listening to what was going on. He walked out of the room, Willie following behind him.

Jean sat down at her desk. Her throat felt like it was closing up, as if there were a vise clamped around it. She managed to compose herself long enough to make a call to Glenn at his work. Somehow she managed to tell him that Connie had died without breaking down. But as soon as she laid the phone down on its cradle, the sobs forced their way out. Someone came over and wrapped their arm around her, she never bothered to look up to see who it was, but was grateful for the comfort.

Hope

The funeral was held in St. Mary’s church; a huge, Gothic-looking stone building a few miles from Armistace. It was surrounded by snow-covered cedar trees, and the tall stained-glass windows glistened in the sun, reflecting sprays of vibrant color on the ground below.

I arrived accompanied by the Captain and Marty, feeling like an intruder at a family gathering. Many of the people assembled were in uniform. Coming to pay their respects were men and women in the official dress colors of the fire department, the police department, and even the United States Marine Corp.

Overwhelmed by the emotion in room, I laid my head on Marty’s shoulder. His large palm cupped my hand in his, and he gave it a gentle squeeze.

I had been in churches before, and unlike my mother, I had tried to keep some connection to my heritage
—
but not for admirable reasons.

Praying my mother would never find out, Diane and I used to sneak into this same church when we were in junior high. We both had gigantic crushes on the town bad boys, Jon Murray and Jimmy Conway, who attended the parochial school on the church grounds.

Instead of going to Mass, the four of us would hide out in the church’s basement, smoking cigarettes and pawing each other in adolescence awkwardness. More than once we were caught by some reverend mother or young priest who would shoo us off, crossing themselves and praying for our salvation.

As we were walking out of the service, we ran into Jean and her family. I had met Glenn, but this was the first time I had come in contact with her son and daughter. The pictures she had shown me didn’t do them justice. Although not out of high school yet, her son was almost as tall as Marty, but it was obvious his body was still in the process of maturing. His hair was white-blond with curls that fell in waves just above his shoulders. It looked like he was trying to grow a mustache under a nose that looked straight enough to serve as a model for plastic surgeons. He smiled graciously when Jean introduced us, his full lips parting over straight, white teeth. Bethany was still very emotional, and her large brown eyes were almost swollen and red from crying. She had her arms wrapped around her dad’s waist. Although she was only twelve, she was at least an inch or so taller than I was, with the scrawny body of a pre-teen.

“Bethany and Connie were very close,” Jean told me. “She was like a second mother to her.” She glanced over at Bethany and then turned back to me. “It’s going to be hard. I miss her already, and Moran, God…”

I shook my head. There was nothing I could say that wouldn’t sound empty. I had no problem finding the words in my office or in a hospital for my clients; when it came to people who were important in my life, I was always at a loss for words.

“I am sorry for your loss, Bethany,” I said as she and her dad approached.

Lifting her head slightly, her blonde curls bouncing, she timidly nodded her head and softly whispered, “Thank you.” She immediately buried her head back into the crook of her dad’s arm.

“How’s Brad doing?” Jean asked me as we walked back toward our vehicles.

“He’s opening up a bit more. We had an episode the other day, but it was stopped before it got out of control. He does seem less resistant to vocalizing his feelings since this latest episode, though.”

Jean almost slipped on patch of black ice and grabbed my arm, almost taking us both down. She recovered her balance, apologizing.

“I’m sorry. Not used to heels.” She went on. “Has he had anymore visits from his grandparents or uncle?” She watched me intently.

“A few days earlier, but they come almost every chance they get, Jean,” I explained “I’ve interviewed them many times, and they’re very compliant when it comes to answering my questions. Their concern for him seems genuine. Brad seems to understand why he can’t go home now, and has been even trying to console his grandmother if she brings it up. I really feel for these people. I wish I could give them some answers.”

“I’d like some answers myself,” Jean replied.

Marty and his father caught up to us as we were saying our goodbyes. The wind was blowing stronger and the Captain turned up the collar of his coat.

“How about we go home, kids. I’ll make us some hot chocolate. You and me, Hope, we can go over the Thanksgiving menu.”

“Sounds good to me, Captain.”

As we got in the car, the captain took the back seat so Marty and I could ride together. Then he reached over and touched my shoulder. I turned to face him.

“You know, Hope, Thanksgiving is only three weeks away. You did mention it to your mother?”

I’d been putting it off for a while now. Call me chicken, but I’d rather be stuck with needles.

“I’m going to do it tonight, Captain, I promise,” I answered sheepishly.

He handed me his cell phone. “How about right now?”

I was caught off guard. I was beginning to feel like a naughty child; the Captain had the ability to do that with just a look.

“She said she was going to a movie today with her friends. I’ll give her a call tonight, I promise.”

“Well young lady, if you don’t. I’ll call her and invite her myself. Well heck, maybe I’ll just do that anyway. What’s her number?”

“Dad, leave her be!” Marty spoke up. He was talking to the Captain’s reflection in the rearview mirror, his fingers nervously playing a symphony on my shoulder.

The Captain clamped his hand down on Marty’s dancing fingers, making sure not to crush my shoulder in the process.

“Will you quit that? You’re driving me crazy, boy.”
Marty let his hand fall from my shoulder and grasped the steering wheel with both hands. It was obvious he was straining to keep his fingers still.

I had noticed that for some reason, this habit of Marty’s would affect the Captain like fingernails on a chalkboard. I made a mental note to ask why the next time it happened.

Several hours later, I had consumed two cups of hot chocolate covered in mounds of whipped cream, while Marty and his dad nursed a couple of beers. After making a few changes to the Thanksgiving menu, the Captain nonchalantly handed me the portable phone he had retrieved from the den.