Authors: Ellen Kirschman

Tags: #Fiction, #Retail, #Suspense, #Thriller

Burying Ben (4 page)

He slides a paper across the table. “This is
what a daily observa
t
ion report looks like. Any questions?”

I shake
m
y head.

“Let’s start with Ben Go
m
ez, that’s the rookie you
m
et about ten days ago.”

Eddie gives a theatrical
sigh and slaps his hand to his head, spilling cigar ashes over the thick binder in front of hi
m
. He c
l
ears his throat. “In my professional opinion, this poor slob couldn’t find his ass
w
ith a
search warrant. The D
o
c saw him in action. A si
m
ple suicide and he was acting like
a puppy pooping peach pits. Unfortunately for us, Mr. Safeway doesn’t know the difference b
e
tween a cauliflower and a crook. Last shift we pulled over so
m
e dirt bag parolee. Go
m
ez didn’t have a clue.
Didn’t
call
in
the
stop. Forgot his flashlight. Turned his gun side to
the perp, and then let
the asshole reach into the glove box so we couldn’t see his hands. I
nearly shit a brick. I’ve told this kid a hundred times, in God we trust, everybody else
better keep their hands where I can see ‘e
m
.”

Lyndley looks at
m
e. “You have to take Eddie in stride, Doc. Flew in under the radar before we had psych screening.”

The other officers are looking at
m
e out of the corners of their eyes, read
i
ng
m
y reaction, sizing
m
e up.

“Listen to this one.
W
e busted a guy for stolen property. House looked like the applia
n
ce depart
m
ent at Wal-Mart.
B
enny boy got all weirded
out because we hooked the guy up in front of his kids.”

“
W
hat do you
m
ean by ‘weirded out’?” I ask.

“Starting bellyaching about how we were
t
r
au
m
a
ti
z
ing the
ki
ds. I told
h
im we
’
re not social
w
orkers, we
’
r
e cops.
W
e don
’
t take this guy to jail, he
’
s in Mexico by to
m
orrow. The perp should have thought about his kids before he started selling shit out of his garage.”

“
W
here is he co
m
pared to where he should be
?
” Lyndley asks.

“Lower than
whale shit.”

Everyone laughs. I feel co
m
pelled to s
m
il
e
. Humor is the coin of the real
m
. I re
m
e
m
ber Ben’s face, h
o
w he wandered around t
h
e room
touching the
o
ld
m
an’s things, like he was in
m
ourning.

“He looked a l
i
ttle stressed when I saw h
i
m
,” I say.

“I’m
the one who
’
s stressed. Being locked up with this kid ten hours a day is going to put
m
e in the nut hut.”

“About ti
m
e,” so
m
eone whispers.

“The boy has no common sense. He’s a n
i
ce kid, don’t get
m
e wrong, but he’s not police
m
ate
r
ial and
n
ev
e
r will
b
e. There’s so
m
ething o
f
f
about hi
m
. I can
’
t put
m
y
f
inger on it. I keep thinking I know h
i
m
, or know so
m
ething about hi
m
.”

He sh
a
kes his head as though whacking his brain against the inside of his skull would unleash the
m
i
ssing infor
m
ation. Just as quickly he regains his co
m
i
c stance. “Let this be a lesson to you young guys. Stay off the sauce. It pickles your brain.”

He turns to
m
e. “Go
m
ez is gonna get hurt or get so
m
eone else hurt. I don’t
m
ean to be disrespectful to your profession, Doc, but I could do a better job picking cops
with
m
y eyes closed. If you think you can help hi
m
, have at it, but do it before he goes un
d
er, beca
u
se he’s t
h
is cl
o
se.”

He hol
d
s out his thu
m
b and index finger, with only a sliver of light between the
m
.

Chapter Three

Ben looks lost in
m
y oversized leather off
i
ce chair. Between his schedule and
m
i
ne, it’s taken us two wee
k
s to make an appoint
m
ent.

There is a
m
arked change in his appearance.
W
ithout the bulky padding from
his Kevlar vest, his thin
shoulders
stick through his ru
m
pled t-shirt like knobs. There are circles under
his eyes and his skin is sallow and
c
l
am
m
y with sweat. He
s
m
ells d
a
m
p.

Shift work turns life upside down. Hu
m
an beings are biologically tuned to sleep at night and
w
o
rk in the daylight. Reverse that and it’s hard to eat or sleep. On top of that, he
’
s living in a pressure cooker without any job security. One
m
i
stake and he is out
on his ear, no explanations needed. Not to
m
ention the stress of sitting in a car with
Eddie R
i
m
bauer watching him
like a hawk for ten straight hours.

We start with a little small talk. He
l
ooks over at
m
y book case, gets up, pulls out the book I
w
r
ote for police fa
m
ilies. “Looks good. Think I’ll buy a copy for
m
y wife. For her birthday.” He walks back to
the chair and sits down again.

“So,“ I say.
“
W
here shall we begin?”

“Is t
h
is confidential?”

“Of course.” I hand him
a copy of my office policy. “Read this when you get ho
m
e. It explains the limits of
confidentiality. What it says is
that I have to report you if you are a danger to yourself or others, unable to care for yourself, or abusing children or old people.”

“But no other ti
m
e?
You don’t h
a
ve
to
talk
to
m
y
FTO
?
”

“Not without your per
m
i
ssion. You sound worried.”

“You went to the FTO
m
eeting last we
e
k.
W
hat did he say about
m
e?
Am I going to get
f
i
r
e
d
?”

“I thought you got feedback every
d
ay about your job performance.“

“That’s why I’m
worried. Does he think I’m
m
en
t
ally off?
Is that why he wanted
m
e to see you?“

“No. Officer Ri
m
bauer recognizes that you’re having trouble. He thought I
m
i
ght be able to help.”

“How
?
”

“I don’t know yet. I need you to tell
m
e what’s going on.”

“You’re sure this is con
f
idential?”

“Yes.”

“He hates
m
e. He’s on my case day and nigh
t
. So
m
et
i
m
es, he just stares at
m
e. Nothing I do is right. He rides
m
e so ha
r
d, I forget stuff I know. And he puts
m
e down. Mocks
m
e. Calls
m
e Mr. Safeway in front of
everyone. You heard hi
m
. Stands there and rolls his eyes. I can
’
t
sleep. I can
’
t
eat. My s
t
o
m
ach aches all the ti
m
e. I
’
ve lost ten pounds since I started with hi
m
. I didn
’
t expect this. I did fine with
m
y
first FTOs, and then I go to R
i
m
bauer and I can’t do anything right. I’d ask for another FTO, but I’d sound like a crybaby. Like I’m
m
aking excuses for
m
yself.
Everyone will think that I’m bla
m
ing him for
m
y
m
i
stakes.”
He
sits
up.
“Could you get
m
e
another F
T
O
?
”

“I don’t think I have the
authority to do that. What
I can do is sit down with you and Officer R
i
m
bauer and try to work out your conflicts. It
’
s obvious you have very different personalities.”

Ben laughs. “His way or the highway. That
’
s how he works things out.”

“Ben, we’re getting a little ahead of ourselves. I
m
i
ght be
m
o
re helpful if I knew more about you. Tell
m
e a little about yours
e
lf.”

He shrugs his shoulders as though shifting a great weight.

“
W
hat do you want to know
?
”

“
W
hat
m
ade
you beco
m
e
a police officer
?
”

His lips twitch. I can’t
tell
if
he’s s
m
iling or gri
m
acing.

“I always
w
anted to
b
e a cop. I put
m
yself throu
g
h the aca
d
emy. I was nu
m
ber one in
m
y class in acade
m
ics.”

He looks to
m
e. I can feel him
pulling for so
m
e acknowledge
m
ent, so
m
e
approval.
T
he best I can
m
uster is a s
m
ile and a nod. Being a good student has little to do with being a good street cop. Acade
m
ic-types like to revel in nuance and collect data before
m
ak
i
ng decision
s
. Cops need to think on their feet and think fast.
W
hat they do, they do in the dark, in the rain, often before
they even know who’s who and what’s what.
T
o hes
i
tate is to get
k
illed
or get so
m
eone else killed.

“It
m
ust be quite a shock to go from first in your class to feeling like you’re failing.”

“Until I
m
et Ri
m
bauer, I never
f
ailed
anything
in
my
li
f
e.”

“Do you like police work
?
”

He falls silent,
see
m
ing to sort out what he wants to say from
what he thinks I want to hear.

“At first I thought it was aweso
m
e. I couldn’t believe I could get paid for having so
m
uch fun. I would have done it for nothing if
I could.”

This is what young cops always say. Two years on the job and
that changes. Now they own trucks, condos, ski boats, motorcycles, snow
m
obiles and have a
m
ountain of debt. In a few years they’ll start billing their depart
m
ents for every 15
m
i
nutes of overti
m
e.

”And now
?
”

He winces and shrugs his shoulders. A
s
m
all tic pulses on his cheek.

“The truth is, I don’t kn
o
w. I wanted to be a cop to help people. All Eddie
w
ants
m
e to do is lock people up.
W
e
s
erved a warrant on so
m
e guy in East Kenilworth for stolen property.
He had stacks of TVs and computers in his garage. Th
e
re were a b
u
nch of
little kids th
e
r
e.
T
hey were clinging to his legs, cr
y
i
ng and screa
m
ing, “Daddy, don’t go Daddy.” I wanted to
c
ite and release, but Eddie
m
ade
m
e put him
in cuffs in front of his kids and take him
to jail. I grew up in East Kenilworth. People there are poor. They do what they can to
m
ake money. The guy wasn
’
t
violent.”

Ben’s cheeks redden slightly as he talks. So
m
ething about this incident has personal
m
eaning for him. I know the part of t
ow
n he’s talking about. East Kenilworth is as different from
Kenilworth as night from
day. Most people call it Little Mexico. It
’
s in the flatlands, separated from
Kenilworth’s hilly afflu
e
nt neighborhoods and shopping districts by a north to south freeway that runs the length of Californ
i
a – one city divided into two worlds, separated by language, culture and
m
oney.

“Cops used to hassle
m
e and
m
y friends when I was a teenager. They liked to run us out of a park near
m
y house for loi
t
ering.
W
e weren’t doi
n
g anything wrong.
W
e weren’t gang bangers. We didn’t use drugs, d
i
dn’t rob people, didn’t do graffiti. The worst I ever did was drink a beer in public.
W
e’re Hispanic. I didn’t like how the cops treated us. I re
m
e
m
ber thinking t
h
at I thought I could do better.”