Ever So Silent

by Christopher Little

  “Emma, I just want to say that I’m, well, sorry about what happened, you know, back then.” On the continuum of inappropriateness, Ethan had Dick Wardlaw beaten by miles. “And, of course, about your dad, too. And Will. Actually, things aren’t going too well at home—”

  “Ethan, this is not a good time,” she said, keeping her voice low but pointed. “Actually, really a bad time. I’m burying my dad here. Right?”

  When she saw her friend Deb Barger coming over, she gave Ethan the slip.

  Deb brought her a cup of punch the color of lime Jell-O. Vanessa Mack gave her a restorative hug. The three agreed to meet soon.

  The Fosters stopped briefly and offered cool condolences. Emma said, “Thank you so much for coming. It means a lot to me.” But she said it to their backs, they moved away so quickly.

  Will, ever polite, would have been aghast.

  Emma excused herself from an informal line of people waiting to speak with her. She found the ladies room in the back of the community room. Thankfully it was empty. It gave her a chance to think about Wardlaw’s “nomination.” At first, she had been angry. Angry at being blindsided. And, truth be told, scared. There are only two people whose advice she needed to undertake such a daunting task. Neither one was available. Suddenly, she realized what would’ve been obvious to anyone else. Both Will and Archie would have, unequivocally, urged her to take the challenge. But she still wasn’t sure. Being chief would be life-changing. But would it be good for her? She honestly didn’t know. Oh, sure, she was flattered. That was only human. Still, she needed more time to think. She splashed water on her face; there was no makeup to ruin. Then, she marched back into the fray.

  Almost immediately, she ran into Dick Wardlaw. He bear-hugged her, squashing her breasts against his chest. She was sure she felt him tilt his pelvis forward to make contact with hers. Defensively, she arched her back, keeping air between them. If it hadn’t been Archie’s funeral, she would’ve called him out on it. She took a backwards step. Wardlaw said, “Congratulations, Emma. I hope you’re as happy as we are.” His breath was foul, and she took another step backwards.

  “I need to think about this, Mayor Wardlaw—”

  “Dick! Please! Call me Dick. We’re in this together.”

  “It’s not that I’m ungrateful. You just took me by surprise.” She tried to be as polite as possible under the circumstances. Hell, in the end she might just accept.

  “Have to tell you the council’s been pressing me to form a search committee. I had to go out on a limb offering you the job. You weren’t exactly top of everyone’s list. I’m sure you’ll understand that I need your answer by tomorrow morning. That shouldn’t be a problem, should it? Here, let me give you a kiss to encourage you to make the right decision.” He aimed for her lips. She gave him the back of her head.

  Finally, the ordeal was over. The kisses, the hugs, all the words … she needed a shower. Emma retrieved Pepper, who was waiting obediently by the door, and quickly drove home.

  There was one other person whom Emma trusted to give her good advice.

  She took off her funeral dress and put it into a pile for dry cleaning. Bra and panties went into the laundry hamper. She finally took that shower. Not an especially vain person, she still checked herself in the mirror. At thirty-six, she thought that she looked pretty good. She was slim and thin-waisted. Her girls, as Will affectionately called them, weren’t too big and weren’t too small. Just about right, she thought. Not exactly an hour-glass figure, but hey. Her overflowing brown hair was longer than your typical female cop’s.

  Tonight, she dressed down for a trip to her favorite bar. She just wanted to be alone, chill, and talk to Phil. She wore blue jeans and a navy turtleneck. Pepper and she drove to Hampshire’s busiest bar, which was called Group Therapy.

  Pepper was welcome at Group Therapy, despite a state law to the contrary. Phil Masters, the owner, was the welcoming sort. He wore a beaming smile and a handlebar mustache worthy of Wyatt Earp and didn’t give a shit about rules. He greeted Emma with an extravagant wave. At 6:30 p.m. on a Saturday night, the joint was jammed. Emma glanced at the TVs. Baseball was on—Red Sox vs. Baltimore—no wonder it was busy. She took a stool at the bar. Pepper went off to greet humans she knew.

  They were regulars.

  Phil brought over a bottle of Lagunitas India Pale Ale (“homicidally hoppy” and “ruthlessly delicious” according to the brewer) and poured it into a frosted mug. “So sorry to hear about your dad. He was one-of-a-kind, old Archie. Broke the mold. I went to the service. Didn’t get a chance to talk to you, though. By the way, congratulations, I guess. Archie’s gonna be a tough act to follow.”

  “Thanks, man. I have to tell you, it’s been tough.”

  Phil patted her hand. “No doubt it’s been tough, but you’re tough, too. You aren’t Archie’s girl for nothing. Have you decided yet?”

  “How do you know I haven’t decided?”

  “Occupational hazard.”

  Phil had been a psychotherapist at the state prison in Rosedale before opening Group Therapy.

  “What do you think I should do?”

  “Let’s look at the downside first. First, it’ll wreck your life. You’ll be on duty 24/7. You’ll never be able to kick back your heels and get shit-faced. Second, the warm friendships you’ve enjoyed with some of your colleagues will cool. A few will resent your promotion, but everyone will treat you with wariness and keep their distance. Third, Archie’s shoes are pretty damn big.

  "On the upside, you have no choice, because it’s what Will and Archie would’ve wanted.”

  Emma laughed out loud for the first time in forever. “Easy as that, huh?”

  At the other end of the bar, someone banged his empty beer bottle on the bar. An out-of-towner, no doubt.

  “Hold your horses!” Phil shouted. “Can’t you see I’m talking to a lady?”

  “You good?” Phil asked with a kind smile.

  “Go take care of your business. Thanks, Phil.”

  9

  An Untimely

  Monday morning, while Emma was outside waiting for Pepper to pee, Mayor Wardlaw telephoned. He didn’t trouble himself with pleasantries. “Are you ready to give me your decision?” Before she could answer, Wardlaw continued, “Honestly, how hard can being a police chief be? You just boss other people around.”

  “Yes,” she said.

  He prattled on as if she hadn’t spoken.

  “Frankly, I’d rather have someone with a degree in criminal justice running my department than a cop who rose through the ranks. Well, what’s it gonna be?”

  “Yes,” Emma said again.

  “Why that’s just super!” Wardlaw exclaimed. “We are going to be a great team. Friends, too. We’ll have this whole town by the balls.” He chuckled. She could almost smell his breath.

  It was more than a little freaky, but Will, in complicated ways and even more than Archie, had a lot to do with her decision. Other than the offer itself, Mayor Wardlaw had nothing to do with it.

  Her swearing-in was scheduled for Wednesday afternoon at City Hall, in the same building as her new police department.

  Monday and Tuesday, Emma continued her patrol duties, but she took the time to speak to as many of her colleagues she could buttonhole, hoping to smooth any ruffled feathers and reassure folks that no dramatic changes were imminent. Ruby Sato, Archie’s long-time administrative assistant and secret weapon, scheduled a fitting for her new uniform early Tuesday morning.

  The swearing-in was brief, ending with two unavoidable kisses from Mayor Dick Wardlaw, one on each cheek. A few friends attended, Vanessa Mack, Deb Barger, and Phil Masters among them. The ceremony was mandatory for the department, except for those on patrol. The Chronicle photographer took a photo of the Mayor, Emma, and Pepper.

  Thursday morning, outside her new office, Ruby handed Emma the Hampshire Chronicle. “Good morning, Chief, and welcome,” she said. “Don’t hesitate to let me know if there’s a
nything I can do for you.”

  “Thanks. Please feel free to continue calling me Emma.”

  “With respect, you are Hampshire Car One now, and I’ll call you Chief. I hope you’ll expect everyone else to do the same.” Ruby gave her a meaningful look.

  Inside her new office, Emma sat in the very chair which Dad had occupied for so long. She felt pride and sadness at the same time.

  Ruby had been busy. A prism-shaped, plastic name plaque was already on the desk: Emma Thorne, Chief of Police. Emma honestly thought it should read Emma Thorne, Rookie.

  She picked up the paper.

  Archie Thorne’s Daughter Sworn In:

  Hampshire’s First Female Police Chief

  She didn’t mind that her name hadn’t made the headline, but the omission reminded her of Phil Masters’s remark about Archie’s shoe size.

  She didn’t know quite what to do, her first day on the job. She’d brought with her a couple of personal items. A framed photograph of Will, her favorite fountain pen, a hairbrush, some deodorant, and a toothbrush and toothpaste. Pepper ran into the office in front of her. She placed her forepaws on Archie’s chair and sniffed long and hard. Pepper, a fully certified police dog, now belonged to Emma. The Belgian Malinois had a black mask, a fawn coat as sleek as mink, and she wore four black leggings.

  Watching her longing for Archie broke Emma’s heart.

  Emma looked away and studied her new office. It was definitely all-male, but she wouldn’t be redecorating anytime soon. A collection of antique, model police cars gathered dust on one shelf. On another, a Red Sox baseball signed by David “Big Papi” Ortiz.

  His brag photos, as she thought such photos ought rightly to be called, lined the walls: Dad in dress uniform with four gold stars on his collars standing with the governor, Dad with the state attorney general, and Dad, six years ago, proudly posing, a master and his police dog, at Pepper’s graduation from K-9 school.

  Emma had also brought last weekend’s Sunday New York Times Magazine.

  If anyone dropped by, she hoped they would knock before entering. She didn’t want to get caught noodling a crossword her first day as chief. Emma liked to start with the long, theme clues, which, today, all had something to do with “Conquest.” The clue to twenty-three across was Director Leni’s 4th Film (sixteen letters, four words). She chewed the end of her ballpoint and thought for a moment, but there was no reason to hurry anymore. There was nobody to compete with. Before their former lives came to a cataclysmic end, Will and she had reserved Sunday mornings for a rollicking crossword puzzle race. Pencils prohibited. They played it in bed.

  Emma had reason to remember the film’s title. She printed the answer. “Triumph of the Will.”

  She remembered, in the early days of their marriage, she used to participate in a three-way race. Georgia, Will, and Emma. When Emma beat them both, as she often did, Georgia became so angry she quit coming.

  Emma glanced at the portrait of him she’d brought to work. It was taken on their wedding day. The desiccated leather of the frame was as worn as the hope that she would see him again. She still could not accept that he was dead. The only other explanation was that Will had run away. But that was the unlikeliest reason of all, because Will was too accustomed to his creature comforts. She didn’t mean to be unkind, but, without his Platinum card, Will would be like a cop without a gun.

  As she often did, she stared at his picture, asking the same questions over and over. The beautiful man in the picture remained mum. As the camera’s shutter had opened that day, their future had seemed impossibly auspicious. Will of the wavy brown hair, leading-man good looks, and the easy, ready smile. He was a yummy man. They had been invincible. No more. She missed him so much. She loved him more.

  A new idea was percolating, but it would have to wait until she’d eased into her new job.

  It was a Sunday morning, and Emma had volunteered for duty, primarily to set a good example. She was still easing into the responsibilities of her new job. She retrieved the unfinished crossword puzzle from a pile on her desk looking for another theme clue to answer.

  From the radio mounted on her desk, a stutter of static interrupted. “Car 4, respond to number 103 Hickam Street for an untimely. 46-year-old male. Cold response.”

  In the well of her desk, Pepper pounded her tail against the floor. She had heard the dispatch, too. Worried that Emma wouldn’t bring her along, Pepper nuzzled Emma’s leg.

  A moment later there was a rap on the frosted glass of her office door. She quickly stashed the puzzle. From the silhouette, it was Sergeant Stella Weeks, who was as short as Lady Gaga, and more manipulative than Lady Macbeth.

  Weeks opened the door. Perhaps to compensate for her stature, she wore her blue uniform blouse a size too small, thus emphasizing her generous chest. Attached to her Sam Browne belt were more accoutrements than any cop should have to carry: a good twenty-five pounds-worth. Glock 19, handcuffs, flashlight, latex gloves, collapsible baton, portable radio, pepper spray, a bubblegum-pink Taser, and enough magazine pouches to hold off SEAL Team 6.

  She believed that as senior sergeant, she was Archie Thorne’s obvious successor. Stella had been openly hostile after the funeral. She bore her defeat with uncompromising bitterness. Tennessee Williams wasn’t the only reason that Emma wanted to scream Stella! every time she saw her.

  “I’m responding to the untimely. We just got a second 911, turns out it’s Ethan Jackson. I understand you knew him. Just sayin’.” She winked at Emma.

  She heard the clamor of Stella’s boots on the stairs.

  But the dispatch got her attention. Time to start being a police chief.

  What on earth could have happened? She remembered Ethan had seemed shaky at Archie’s funeral.

  She swung her feet off the desk and grabbed her once-worn chief’s cap. Followed by Pepper, whose tail was cork-screwing, she went downstairs to her unmarked police interceptor sedan. Even as a beginner police chief (which, when she thought about it, was a pretty funny oxymoron), Emma thought it was silly that her car was known as a “police interceptor sedan,” when everyone knew it was just a gussied-up Ford Taurus.

  103 Hickam Street was in the Northwood section of Hampshire. Newish construction, the central part of Ethan’s house was A-framed with a cathedral ceiling and a wall of windows facing Hickam Street. It reeked McMansion. Emma preferred older, smaller houses. Behind Ethan’s was the golf course of the Hampshire Country Club.

  Stella Weeks’s SUV was in the driveway along with another HPD vehicle and the ambulance. The dispatch had been for a “cold” response, which meant no lights, no siren, but Stella’s light bar was lit up like a Walmart at night. It was raining, but a small group of neighbors rubber-necked at not a whole lot.

  She let the dispatcher know of her arrival. As she parked, Max Beyersdorf opened Ethan’s front door and walked toward her car. Emma thought Max was the smartest of her bevy of officers. Max was built like a linebacker, but he was charmingly anxious to please. He sported a fuzzy crewcut, making him look like a Bichon Frisé with a pet trim.

  “Uh, Chief, he’s BART—”

  “Pretty stinky, eh?”

  Bart was cop-speak for a Body Assuming Room Temperature.

  Max offered her a small jar of Vicks VapoRub.

  After she dabbed a dollop of Vicks under each nostril, Emma asked, “How did he do it?”

  “Poor bastard hung himself.”

  “Hanged,” she corrected reflexively.

  “Either way, he’s dead.”

  10

  A Sharpie

  Sergeant Weeks met Emma at the front door. She handed her paper booties and a pair of purple nitrile gloves. Pepper walked in barefoot, keeping her shoulder next to Emma’s left knee. Dad had explained: “Dog heels on the left, it keeps your gun hand free.”

  She remembered the course she’d taken at the University of New Haven, Crime Scene Processing. The teacher had emphasized, “Treat all suicide scenes as crime scenes.
”

  Sergeant Weeks said, “A suicide is treated as a crime scene. Follow me, and please don’t touch anything.”

  Yes, Stella.

  “It’s pretty cut and dried. Suicide by hanging. No note. At least, we can’t find one. I let the medical examiner’s office know. They may send somebody, or they may not. After that, the funeral home will remove the body and hold it until the ME picks it up for autopsy. All suicides get an autopsy.”

  Emma listened to Stella without comment.

  Not including the deceased, Emma counted six people and a dog in the living room. There were two Hampshire EMTs, Detective Larry “Buzz” Buzzucano, who was taking photographs with a Canon Rebel, Sergeant Weeks, and Max. She gave Pepper the command Down. Without a flicker of hesitation, Pepper extended her forelegs, folded her haunches, and lay motionless.

  Under Stella’s watchful eye, Emma directed her attention to Ethan. She hadn’t had any contact with Ethan since high school, excepting Archie’s funeral. She knew that he’d made a boatload of money on some tech company. She’d never loved Ethan, but she couldn’t walk back that they had once been intimate. She now regretted her dismissal of his overtures at the funeral. What had he said? Something about things not going well at home. They sure weren’t.

  She was viewing the body from behind. He had tied the suicide rope around a ceiling truss. His body hung from a classic hangman’s noose with the knot placed against the left side of his head. He wore boxer shorts. The rest of his clothes were neatly folded on the sofa. A pink sweater, pressed khaki pants, tasseled loafers, and red socks. He looked like he had been dressed for a country club brunch.

  Ethan must have measured carefully, because his toes were no more than six inches above the carpet. An eight-foot step ladder lay on the floor where it had smashed through a glass-topped coffee table. Looking at the body was disturbing, but she found herself adjusting to the reality that she was in charge. That she, Emma Thorne, was actually the Chief of Police. No one else’s decisions, not even Stella’s, mattered. The scene (and future scenes) were hers and hers alone. She bore the responsibility for success as well as all the risks of failure.