Max Beyersdorf and Caroline Stoner, who was so pretty nobody could understand why she didn’t have a partner, returned from New Haven with nothing to report. No one in Will’s department had seen or heard from him.
Pete Sinclair and Chuck Smith interviewed everyone in Hampshire on Emma’s list. Every single person denied any knowledge of Will’s whereabouts. They reported to Archie that they believed them.
Emma continue to despair.
On Friday, one week after the disappearance, her dad showed up on her front door.
He looked pallid and disheveled, like an unmade bed.
She studied his face. “You’re going to give up, aren’t you?”
“Give me a hug,” he said instead of answering. They embraced on the threshold. Pepper inserted her snout between their legs.
“We’re not getting anywhere, Baby,” he continued. “The department is exhausted. I confess, I’m exhausted. And, well, as I said, we’re just not getting anywhere.”
Not meaning to be unsympathetic, Emma said, “So that’s it? No Will. And the department resumes its daily chores?”
“I’m afraid so.”
“Well, I will continue to search for Will—”
“And I will help you. It’s the department I’m forced to worry about.”
“I understand, Dad,” she said, not sure she meant it.
“Thank you for that. I know how hard this is. Not just for you.”
“Dad, what do you really think happened?”
Her father rarely couched important matters. She didn’t expect him to do so now.
Archie raised an eyebrow. “Truthfully, I think Will was in complete despair. I think he found a secret place where we might not find him for a long time and committed suicide. I think he did that to spare you the trauma of discovering his body.”
“I disagree. Will would never do that to me. I know him. He would have suffered for as long as it took for him to get better rather than hurting me like that.”
Archie looked at her for a long time. He smiled. Then he said, gently, “You know you’ll have to go back to work? I can’t spare you anymore.”
“I understand.”
Archie drove back to headquarters, leaving Emma alone with her thoughts.
She remembered the first time she’d brought Will home to meet her dad. University of New Haven introduces Yale to Hampshire’s Chief of Police, she recalled with a rare chuckle.
That afternoon Connecticut was in the embrace of a dramatic autumn. Oranges, yellows, and reds dazzled the eyes as they drove up Route 8. As the splendid colors flew past, she realized that she had never brought home someone she was really serious about.
Will and she had danced around the marriage topic, but the music was still playing.
Dad greeted them at his front door with the undisguised scrutiny that a girl’s father reserves for a first prom date. He didn’t offer them a drink, and he quizzed Will for the first hour. Emma knew that Archie didn’t particularly like Will’s father. There was some ancient history about Frank Foster trying to coerce Archie into fixing a speeding ticket.
Will remained unfailingly charming throughout and answered Archie’s questions without a sniff of sycophancy. Eventually Archie seemed to relax. He said to Emma, “Baby, why don’t you mix us three martinis?” To Will, he said, “You do like martinis, don’t you?”
When Emma returned ten minutes later with a tray of martinis, both men were smiling.
“What’s so funny?” she asked.
“Will turned the tables on me and asked me a question I couldn’t answer. It is a question only you can answer.”
Emma blushed crimson as Will dropped to one knee right in front of Archie and said, “Emma, I love you. Will you marry me?”
The next week, Emma resumed patrol duty with a sodden heart. Not much happened for the first few days. A few traffic stops, a burglary, one domestic ... little of importance.
On Thursday, Emma decided to surprise her dad by taking him out to dinner. At the end of her shift, she returned to headquarters and climbed the steps to Archie’s second floor office. She knocked on the door, but there was no answer. She let herself in. Archie was sprawled in his reclining office chair, his head cocked back, fast asleep. Pepper had her snout rested in his lap. An endearing sight. She closed the door quietly and went back downstairs to the locker room where she changed into her civvies.
Caroline Stoner walked in after a shower, drying her hair with a towel. Emma was once again struck by how beautiful she was. At roughly 25-years-old, she turned eyes wherever she went, and not just men’s. She was more than noticeable. Half Portuguese, with an American mother, she had coal black hair. If the light was right, hints of blue appeared like Wonder Woman’s hair in the original comic books. Emma envied her luscious red lips. The word around headquarters was that Caroline was actively looking for a guy. Why she hadn’t found one was beyond Emma.
Emma liked her, as did the whole team.
They rehashed the arrest of Joe Henderson, finding a few things to laugh about. “What an oxygen thief,” said Emma. Nothing bonded officers together more than a hairy take down.
Half an hour passed before Emma went upstairs. On the first floor, she passed the glass-fronted dispatcher’s room. The dispatcher on duty motioned her in. She said, “Have you seen the Chief? Mayor Wardlaw has called three times. You know what he’s like—”
“Yup, I sure do.” Emma laughed.
“Anyway, every time I put a call through to your dad’s office, he doesn’t pick up.”
“Last time I looked he was fast asleep, but I doubt he would’ve slept through three phone calls. Maybe I should go wake him up.”
Emma took the steps two at the time. Archie was in the same position and Pepper still had her snout in his lap. But this time Pepper whined.
“What is it Pepper?” she asked from the doorway. She walked over and shook her dad by the shoulder. His head lolled. “Oh, Jesus,” Emma cried.
She felt for his carotid artery. No pulse. She put the back of her hand close to his mouth. Archie wasn’t breathing either. She hauled him off the chair onto the floor. She started chest compressions. With her left hand she reached for her radio, but it wasn’t there. She’d changed out of her uniform.
She paused compressions to grab the phone. The dispatcher answered.
“My dad’s down. Call the ambulance. Request a paramedic,” Emma shouted. She dropped the phone, dropped to her knees, and resumed compressions. “Dad, Dad, don’t go. Please don’t go.”
Shit! She’d forgotten the defibrillator. She grabbed the receiver again. “You still there?”
“I’m still here, Emma. Ambulance is on its way—”
“Get an AED up here right away.”
Emma continued pumping Archie’s sternum until Stoner arrived with a defibrillator. They ripped off his shirt and attach the pads. The machine’s disemboweled voice intoned, “Stop CPR. Do not touch the patient.”
There was an agonizing pause.
“No shock advised,” said the machine.
“Fuck,” Emma wailed.
There was a good kind of “no shock advised” and a bad kind.
Emma knew which one this was.
They continued CPR. Emma pummeled his chest. She felt a rib crack. Caroline Stoner performed mouth-to-mouth.
But they both knew that Archie Thorne was dead.
The last two to arrive in Archie’s crowded office were the brothers, both in blue suits, who co-owned Hampshire Funeral Services. The cops made way for them. They wheeled in a gurney and lowered it next to Archie’s body. On the gurney was a black, rubbery bag with a long zipper.
When they approached Archie, Pepper growled at them. Emma had to quiet her.
They finished zipping him up.
Emma said, “Wait.” She knelt next to the bag, unzipped it to expose her dad’s head. She kissed him on the forehead. “Goodbye, Dad, I love you.” He was already cold. Pepper joined her and licked Archie’s
lips.
Emma nodded to the brothers. With help from a couple of the cops, they loaded Archie onto the gurney and wheeled him out the door.
Emma looked around the room. It seemed like the whole department had crowded into the office. Everyone looked on in disbelief. No one said a word.
Emma said, “Would everybody mind? I need a moment.”
They all left with murmurs of condolences.
When she was finally alone, she sat in Archie’s chair and dropped her head to his desk. A lifetime of tears flowed.
Eventually, she lifted her head and blew her nose. Pepper was pacing the perimeter of the office like a tiger in a cage. She called her over. “He’s gone, I don’t know what else to tell you. I know I can’t replace him, but I promise I will try.”
7
Double Jeopardy
I despise disorder.
Three Ps rule my life: preparation, plotting, and pulling it off.
Before I go to bed, I set the breakfast table. After polishing the silver with a soft cloth, I place the fork one inch to the west of my plate. The knife and spoon go one inch and two inches, respectively, to the east. My juice glass goes one and a half inches southwest of the northeast corner of my placemat. Then I’m all set for breakfast.
I have my house—and it’s a damn fine house—all to myself.
Every once in a while, I think it is a useful exercise to take stock, to take a moment to look over the past and plan for the future. Recent events make this especially useful.
My last plan, I executed perfectly, which is no big surprise if you know me. I am highly intelligent, organized, and competent. Planning and executing is what I am best at. (I know, you’re not supposed to end a sentence with a preposition, but, if you already know the rules, it is permissible to break them.) As Winston Churchill said, “This is the sort of English up with which I will not put!”
I suppose a psychiatrist would diagnose me as a narcissist. Considering the strengths of my personality skills, why wouldn’t they? I have every right to think highly of myself. On the other hand, I believe that psychotherapy is contraindicated for me in particular. Why fix what ain’t broke? (It is okay to use slang where such usage improves the strength of the message.)
It is all about the planning, and then there is nothing on earth more satisfying than the successful avenging of a wrong.
“You kill my dog, you better hide your cat,” Mohammed Ali said.
Did I mention that I served my country (“My country, right or wrong.”) as a navy corpsman in the U.S. Marine Corps (Semper fi!)? Unless you were once a hospital corpsman, and I was, there are few skills you do not possess. Like learning to think “outside of the box.”
Did I mention that I am highly intelligent? I’m also introspective. Many highly intelligent people are not. When something goes wrong (which rarely happens to me), I understand why. Ordinary People (film reference intended) don’t possess this skillset. This makes me very powerful and successful at my current mission, which is to right a wrong.
This morning, I retrieve the Hampshire Chronicle from my front door. The headline draws me up short.
Wow!
Archibald Thorne Dies
Heart Attack Suspected
by Virginia Hobson, Staff Reporter
Archibald “Archie” Thorne, 61, Hampshire’s widely admired Chief of Police, was found unresponsive by his daughter, Officer Emma Thorne, at Hampshire Police Department headquarters. Officers Thorne and Caroline Stoner attempted CPR, but Chief Thorne was pronounced dead by paramedics on scene. Chief Thorne began his career ...
Not much point in finishing the article. I know the rest.
I am not ashamed to say that a small smile escapes my lips. Between Will and Archie, Emma must feel like she’s being convicted twice for the same crime.
8
A Bear Hug
Emma could find no instructions for her father’s funeral, although she searched his house and office. Archibald “Archie” Thorne was a lapsed Catholic. Emma chose St. Michael’s Catholic Church anyway, because it was Hampshire’s largest. Mock Gothic, the nave of St. Michael’s was cavernous, and she knew that every seat would be filled. Like Hampshire, St. Michael’s was shopworn, but Father Ben insisted that his congregation was growing.
When Mayor Dick Wardlaw found out that Archie had left no special wishes, he promptly took over the preparations. Rather than being annoyed, Emma accepted the state of affairs with relief. She honestly couldn’t face the arrangements on her own.
Moreover, she couldn’t believe that she was attending her father’s funeral without Will by her side. It was so goddamn unfair.
Saturday, the day of the service, dawned gray. She hadn’t slept much the night before. She and Pepper arrived early, so as to miss the crowds. It would be hard enough to face people at the reception without doing it twice. She waited in the sacristy with Father Ben’s blessing. Her two best friends from high school, Deb Barger and Vanessa Mack, sneaked in to buck her up.
At 10:05 a.m. Father Ben cracked the door of the sacristy. “It’s time, Emma. Are you ready?” She dabbed her eyes with a handkerchief and followed him into the church proper. Although she knew that Archie was popular in the community, she was stunned by the size of the crowd. Every pew seemed to be filled, and there were people standing at the back and along the sides. The entire department in their dress blues was lined up on either side of the coffin in front of the altar. As Acting Chief, Stella Weeks stood slightly apart. Her chief’s hat, with scrambled eggs on the visor, was way too big. Emma fleetingly wondered if she had expropriated it from Archie’s coat rack.
The eulogists included the lieutenant governor, the commanding officer of the Connecticut State Police, State Senator Ethel Davidson, and Mayor Dick Wardlaw.
While they spoke, she thought about how fabulous her dad had really been. When she was seven, a doctor had diagnosed her mother with a virulent form of cancer. She died in less than three months. It was so long ago that Emma needed photographs to remember what she looked like. In those days, her dad was a patrol officer like she was today. His life flipped the moment Mom was diagnosed.
Virginia Thorne had been an unapologetic housewife who dedicated her life to caring for her only child. Overnight, Dad became Emma’s sole caregiver. Mom and Dad, all rolled into one. Archie had met the challenge with characteristic enthusiasm. He’d loved and cuddled her, cooked her meals, taken her to the playground, organized birthday parties (even baking cakes), tucked her in every night after a story, even took her to the pharmacy to buy her first box of Kotex for Teens.
Mayor Dick Wardlaw was the last person to speak.
Dick Wardlaw stepped up to the mic, his favorite place to be.
Bald and overweight, Wardlaw could have been the clone of a certain disgraced Hollywood producer. She had heard some unsubstantiated rumors, and she’d often speculated that his personal behavior might follow the same script. She wouldn’t be surprised, because he was a powerful man. Nobody in town could figure out how Wardlaw seemed to have every member of the City Council in his pocket.
“I first met Archie Thorne in grade school,” Wardlaw began.
Beware of eulogies that begin with the word I, Emma thought.
“I was in the playground of Hampshire Elementary. I was a little overweight then ...” He gave the self-deprecating shrug of the experienced politician. “... Anyway, the playground bully, I kid you not, threw sand in my face. I didn’t know Archie at the time. But guess who was the first person to intervene? You’re right! Archie Thorne punched the bully right smack in the nose.” He paused expectantly for a laugh. He got one, albeit more of a collective chuckle. “Since that time, up until Archie’s untimely death last week, we have been the closest of friends.”
Wardlaw droned on. After ten minutes of down-home folksiness, he got to his punchline.
For Emma, it was more of a punch than a punch line.
In a conclusion completely inappropriate to any funeral speech,
Wardlaw ended by saying, “With the unanimous backing of the entire City Council, I’d like to announce that we have selected Emma Thorne to succeed her father to be the next chief of police of Hampshire. Congratulations, Emma!” He started the applause, and the assembled congregants followed wholeheartedly.
Emma was blindsided and furious. But she kept her expression impassive. She patted Pepper on the head to distract herself.
Father Ben organized the recessional. Led by Sergeant Stella Weeks, who looked shell-shocked, six members of the force lifted Archie’s coffin to their shoulders. They marched slow-time toward the narthex. Emma left her pew and followed the coffin with Pepper glued to her left knee.
Shifting her eyes from side to side, she smiled at friends, neighbors, and many strangers.
Yet she felt completely alone.
The reception in the Barbagallo Community Room overflowed with well-wishers. Congratulations and condolences mixed in a Waring Blender blur. Kisses, handshakes, and hugs. A woman she’d never met before told her that it was a tribute to Archie that he had so many friends even though he was the chief of police. It was an odd thing to say, but it resonated with Emma.
She looked around for Dick Wardlaw. She had a few things to say to him. For the moment he wasn’t anywhere to be found.
Emma felt a tap on her shoulder. “Um, hi. Guess it’s been a while. How’ve you been? Except for all this, I mean.” He waved an arm awkwardly.
She recognized him immediately. Ethan Jackson was still a good-looking guy. They had dated their junior year in high school. It was pretty easy to remember the first guy you slept with.
Before their “first time,” Ethan had kept increasing the pressure on her. He’d cajoled. He begged. He swore he’d “done it” before. Whatever it took in his seventeen-year-old mind. Eventually she’d relented, and they’d had clumsy sex in the back of his mother’s Honda Odyssey. It wasn’t the end of the world, but Emma felt used, and she dumped him the next day.
Ever So Silent Page 4
