Chapter Ei
g
ht
I call Ben at ho
m
e and get his answering
m
ac
h
ine. I wait for two hours, but he never
c
alls
m
e back, despite April
’
s cheery
el
e
ctro
n
ic ass
ur
ance th
a
t th
e
y will do so as soon as possible because they are really, rea
l
ly sorry to have
m
issed
m
y
c
all and hope I’m having a really aweso
m
e day.
Baxter stops
m
e in the hall. He’s heard
a
bout Ben calling in sick and interprets it the sa
m
e way I do. He gives
m
e a pep talk.
W
e tried our best, these things happen, no one’s to
b
l
a
m
e.
W
ho knows,
m
aybe Ben will
f
i
n
d a job with a s
m
aller d
e
part
m
ent, or
m
aybe he should aim
for
so
m
ething less challenging, like a com
m
unity service officer position. He pro
m
ises to call Ben and check in.
The next day Ben’s letter of
resignation is posted on the bulletin board on A-level. It is brief and to the point. He is resig
n
ing for personal reasons and thanks everyone for their support. I call Ben every day for anoth
e
r week. He never calls
m
e back. I hate unfinished endings. Actually I hate endings of any kind, especially when I’m
not the one who wants to call it q
u
its.
Six weeks later Ben is dead and I am
in the
chief’s office standing on
that worn spot in the carpet. It is 5:30 a.m. I can see myself
reflected in the window behind Baxter’s desk, dark shado
w
s beneath
m
y eyes. The sun is co
m
i
ng up,
m
arbling the black sky outside with bloody red stripes. Baxter is
staring at his co
m
puter. “
T
his is a first for
m
e,” he says. “A suicide note by e
m
ail.” I walk behind
his desk so that I can see the screen: “Dear Chief
Baxter: Thanks for treating
m
e like dirt. There are so
m
e things you should know. Eddie Rimbauer is an e
m
o loser.”
”
W
hat’s an e
m
o loser?” I ask.
Baxter shrugs. “Beats
m
e.”
I continue reading: “Ri
m
bauer was on
m
y case every day. He’s a bully. He tried to force
m
e
t
o quit. I went to the doctor for help. She only
m
ade thi
n
gs worse. She told
m
e what I s
a
id w
a
s confidential and then she told him
everything. She ordered
m
e to bring my wife in for counseling which wrecked our
m
arriage. I
had a happy
m
arriage and now I have nothing thanks to her.”
Baxter shoves his desk
chair under
m
e b
e
fore my knees give way and pours
m
e a glass of water. “
W
ant a cop
y
?”
T
h
e pri
n
ter s
p
its it out
b
efore I can a
n
swer.
“I don’t understand. He wasn’t suicidal.”
My heart is pounding like I’ve just run up a flight of stairs. “He was happy about getting a new FTO. Happy about getting so
m
e ti
m
e off. He was under a lot of stress, sure,
so was his wife. But he trusted
m
e. I know he did.
W
hy d
i
dn’t he call
m
e?
W
hy didn’t he call so
m
eone
?
”
Baxter hands
m
e Ben’s note and sits on the edge of his desk, facing
m
e.
“Dot, I need to know everything that happened between you two. Everything he told you about Eddie.” He jerks his head f
r
om
s
i
de to side, making that crackling noise in his neck.
“I can’t tell you. It’s confidential.”
“He’s dead
.
”
“It still applies.”
The law
is unclear about
this. I opt for the conservative answer. The s
m
all veins around Baxter’s eyes and te
m
ples bulge.
“You don’t get it. An officer under my com
m
and is dead.
A
n officer I hired. I’ve already started an IA. You’ll be
compelled to gi
v
e a state
m
ent.”
“An inter
n
al a
ff
airs investigation on
m
e
?
”
“On everyone connected with Ben. R
e
m
e
m
ber, your firm
was the one
w
ho recom
m
ended hi
m
, said he was psychologically stable.”
“It’s not
m
y firm
anymore, and I didn’t do his psych.”
“
W
ell your na
m
e’s still on the letterhead. N
o
t to
m
ention the fact that I hired you specifically to prevent this kind of thing from
happening.” He stands up. “I’m
going to the briefing room
to tell the troops. Then I’m
going
out to see the wife and her f
a
m
ily. I’m
not looking forward to this. Set up a psycholog
i
cal debriefing for our people to
m
orrow. I don’t want any
m
ore casualties. Now, go ho
m
e
and take care of
yourself. You look like shit.”
That night I have a nig
h
t
m
are. I’m
at
the beach at a
m
assive police conve
n
tion when
h
uge waves rise up without warning, giant w
a
lls of ocean hover overhead, threatening to crush everyone.
I race through the crowd screa
m
ing, pleading, trying to get so
m
eone to pay attention to t
h
e i
m
pending catastrophe. It is as though I am invisible and everyone there is deaf. I wake
just before the
w
aves crash, gasping and panicked,
m
y nightgown twisted
around
m
y legs like seaweed.
I arrange the chairs for the debriefing in a c
i
rcle and then go to the cafeteria for coffee, cookies and a box of tissues. By the ti
m
e I return, several officers have pushed their chairs out of the circle, up against the wall.
So
m
e are wearing sung
l
asses or pretending to be absorbed in their ne
w
spapers. The room
is
totally
s
ile
n
t e
x
cept
f
or the rustle of
pages being turned. I take a seat and ask for everyone
’
s attent
i
on. I explain the ground rules
f
or a debriefing: you have to be here, but you don
’
t
have to talk. Anything said should stay in the roo
m
. They look skeptical.
Eddie is a no show. His absence hangs over the
m
eeting as heavily as Ben’s death. The only free flowing conversation ce
n
ters on his whereabouts. He’d been seen drinking at his favorite bar the
night
before.
Someone
said he was so drunk that if he opened his eyes, he would have bled to dea
t
h. So
m
eone else reports that as of this morning, his car was still in the parking lot behind the bar. For the rest of the debriefing, they just sit, wrapped in e
m
otional Kevlar,
staring at
m
e, answering
m
y questions with one word sentences. There is nothing to talk about – no war stories,
no one in custody, and no suspects – just a dead cop hardly anyone kn
e
w and the stench of a preventable tragedy. It doesn
’
t
help that I am
the person
w
ho
m
ight have prevented it, and I am running the debriefing.
Chapter Nine
There is a
n
ear Oly
m
pic co
m
petition
to police d
e
ath. Dying in the line of
duty while doing battle with a crook
gets t
h
e gold. The silver goes to t
h
e accide
n
t
al
o
n-duty deat
h
s. On-duty deaths from
he
a
r
t attacks
m
e
rit bro
n
ze.
Suicide ran
k
s a p
i
tiful fourth – no honor guard, no 21 gun salute, no
m
issing
m
an f
l
yover, no black ribbons on badges, no bagpipes, no flags at half
m
ast, no fire t
r
ucks lining the overpasses and no
m
ile-long cavalcade of patrol cars and
m
otorcycles, flashers blinking, to acco
m
pany the casket.
April has chosen a funeral parlor in an industrial area south of Kenilworth. The walls are
m
a
de of painted cinder block. Artifi
c
ial flowers, their leaves weathered to an iri
d
esce
n
t green, fill the window boxes.
W
ithout
the usual funeral
b
enefits accor
d
ed to line of duty deaths, this is app
a
re
n
tly all s
h
e can
aff
ord.
The funeral director stands at the front
door handing out progra
m
s. His f
i
ngernails are as long as a wo
m
an
’
s and
his hair curls below his col
l
ar
in
lank,
greasy
strands.
“There will be no rece
p
tion after the ser
v
ice,” he whispers. “
T
he Patcher fa
m
ily plans to lay the deceased’s body
to rest later in the day in a private” — he emphasizes the word ‘private’ — ”graveside cere
m
ony at an undisclosed location.” He is pro
f
oundly solicitous of
everyone’s understanding as though the decision is
his, not the f
a
m
ily’s, and a bad one at that. He stands too close and nods his head con
s
tantly, obliging the listener to nod back reassuringly in order to esca
p
e into the cool qu
i
et of the chapel.
Eddie is standing in the narrow space bet
w
een t
h
e la
s
t pew
a
nd the wall. He is in uni
f
orm
wearing his su
n
glasses and holding an
u
nlit cig
a
r. He gives no i
n
dication th
a
t
he sees
m
e. The room
is barely half full. I see
Baxter sitting by hi
m
self. When he sees
m
e, he pats the
p
lace ne
x
t to him
and
m
o
t
ions for
m
e to slide in.
Across the aisle, an older wo
m
an is sobb
i
ng softly into a white handkerchief. The
m
an next to her rests his arm
across her back and pats her rhyth
m
ic
a
lly without turning to look at her face. There is
so
m
ething fa
m
iliar abo
u
t his profile and the an
gl
e of his long thin nose.
I wonder if the
s
e are Ben’s grandparents.
The older
m
an
’
s eyes fix forward on t
h
e cl
o
sed metal casket
d
raped with an A
m
erican flag. An eight by twelve
p
hoto of
Ben, in uniform
at his academy graduation, sits on a wooden easel next to the caske
t
. His s
m
iling
p
rese
n
ce feels like a personal rebuke. Something twines inside
m
y chest and s
q
ueezes. I can feel a s
m
all pulse drum
m
i
ng beneath
m
y cheekbones.
The piped-in organ
m
u
si
c gets louder. The
r
e is a rustle from
t
he back of the roo
m
. All heads t
u
rn as the
fa
m
ily begins their slow walk down the center
aisle. April hu
n
ches against her
f
ather, clinging to him
as though s
h
e is blind as well as brokenhearted.
W
is
ps of blonde hair spill o
u
t from
under a veiled
h
at
t
h
at conceals her downturned face. She is wearing a s
h
ort, sleevel
e
ss black
m
aternity dress.
Her father steps one foot at a ti
m
e,
in the slow cadence of the
m
i
ssing honor guard. Tall and thin, his sharp features
c
oncentrate into a
m
ask, his eyes
n
arrow and focused straight ahead.
H
er
m
other walks beh
i
nd,
shorter
and
heavier
than April, dabbing at her eyes with a tissue. She wears soft
shoes t
h
at wheeze
u
nder her weight. Behind her is the chapl
a
in. He
m
ounts the
p
lat
f
or
m
.
W
ith slow, careful mov
e
m
ents he unfolds a purple vest
m
ent, slips it over his head and op
e
ns his bible. He looks
out at the sparse crowd with a pract
i
ced mournful s
m
ile. The service is brief and shorn of any details about Ben’s death. The chaplain
m
akes it seem as if Ben has just evaporated in the line of duty on the
threshold of a career he loved passionately, called by a benevolent God to stand
w
atch in Heaven.
Afterwards, we line up to pay our respects
to the f
a
m
ily. Chief Baxter motions for
m
e to go ahead of him
a
s the line moves slo
w
ly forward. April stands next to the guest book. Rivulets of
m
ascara puddle under her eyes
and leak over her bloated cheeks. I open my ar
m
s to her.
“April, I’m
so sorry. This is beyond words.”
Her jaw goes slack and she covers h
e
r
m
outh with her hands. Her tiny diamond wedding band glints in the low light. She tur
n
s to her father. “D
a
ddy, it’s that doctor. She’s here.”
He lurches out of
the receiving line, his ar
m
s stretched to the side like a hu
m
an shield, blocking my view. He bends do
w
n until
h
i
s
fa
ce is level in
f
r
ont of
m
i
ne. His voice is a low growl. “Lea
v
e
m
y daughter alone. Do not call, do not write, do not try to get in touch with her or I’ll have a restraining order issued against you. Understand
m
e
?
”
“I’m
sorry, I only want to help.” I feel a bu
m
p f
r
om
behind as Baxter takes
m
e by the arm
and pulls
m
e toward the door. He does
n
’t let go until we are in the parking lot.
My heart is thu
m
ping so loudly I wonder if he can hear it.
“Vinnie Patcher,” he says. “Mercenary
s
on-of-a-bitch. Always out for hi
m
self. We went through the acade
m
y together and t
h
en he went to law school. Now h
e
’
s Chief D.A. in Sacra
m
ento County. He
’
s an a
m
bitious bastard. S
m
ells big
m
oney and he’s sali
v
ating
.
”
“Don’t be so cynical. Grief
m
akes peop
l
e act crazy. His son in law’s dead, his daughter is suffering and his grandchild is
facing life without a father.
Y
ou’d probably be crazy to
o
, in the
s
a
m
e
situ
a
tion
.
”
“Don’t be naïve. Patcher
’
s crazy like a
fox. I off
e
red the fa
m
ily a liaison officer, an escort to the funeral, counseling, whateve
r
.
H
e didn’t want any of
it. Wouldn’t even let
m
e speak to his daughter. He doesn’t care
about Ben. I’m
telling you, this guy is trouble. He’s always been a pain in the
ass. And now he’s got a good cause.”