by Steve Gannon
Leaning down, I retrieved the final cartridge I’d ejected. Holding it in my palm, I stared at the .45 caliber round that had nearly taken the life of my son. Extending my hand, I offered the bullet to Nate.
Nate hesitated, making no move to accept it.
“Take it,” I said. “And for the rest of your life, never forget the strength you showed getting through this night.”
With trembling fingers, Nate took the cartridge, closing his fist around it tightly. Unexpectedly, he again began to cry. “God, I’m a mess,” he mumbled, fighting to stem his tears. “Jeez, look at me . . .”
“I am looking at you, Nate,” I said. Moving closer, I put my arm around his shoulders. “And I’ll tell you what I see. I see someone I love. I see someone who’s confused and in pain, but I also see someone who is going to recover. I see a young man who has his entire life ahead of him, a life filled with wonderful things he can’t yet imagine. I see someone who has just taken a big step toward becoming a man. I see you, Nate. I see you.”
“Thanks for . . . for being here, Dad,” Nate said quietly, his face wet with tears.
I nodded, struck by the thought that as parents, Catheryn and I had often worried about what life might do to our children. It had never occurred to us to consider what we might do to them, or what they might do to themselves.
Giving Nate’s shoulders a final squeeze, I stood. “I’m sure Grandma Dorothy is still waiting up for us,” I sighed. “Let’s go home.”
I didn’t sleep again that night. Instead, I remained in my son’s room, watching over him as he slept. Along with a profound sense of relief that things had turned out as they had, I felt a crushing burden of guilt, realizing that Dorothy had been right all long. Immersed in my own despair following Catheryn’s death, I had let my emotional withdrawal isolate me from the very people who needed me most. And that withdrawal, and my refusal to recognize its effect on those I loved, had nearly cost the life of my son.
As I sat in darkness listening to the soft sounds of Nate’s breathing, I searched deep within myself, exploring a place I rarely visited. And as I took a long, hard look at myself, I didn’t like what I saw. Though it was difficult to accept, I knew that over the years, in one way or another, I had brought disaster to my family. First Tommy, lost because of my failure to consider any perspective other than my own. And the night our house had burned to the sand, almost taking our family with it, had also been because of me. And Catheryn, who had died in my arms, killed by a bullet meant for me.
And now Nate.
I knew, beyond a doubt, that had the sniper’s bullet ended my life instead of Catheryn’s, my son’s suicide attempt would never have happened. Catheryn wouldn’t have allowed it.
But I had.
It was the longest night of my life. And as the sun rose the following morning, I knew that nothing could ever again be the same.
Chapter 36
Later that morning while Nate still slept, I asked Dorothy to spell me in his room. After leaving her with Nate and taking a quick shower, I made a pot of coffee. Then, determined to get my son the best treatment possible, I called Dr. Berns.
Berns had just arrived at work when I reached him. Upon hearing what had happened, he advised me to first make certain that Nate didn’t have access to any items with which he could harm himself. Also, under no circumstances were we to leave him alone. Berns then instructed me to take Nate to the Saperstein Emergency Department at Ronald Reagan UCLA Medical Center—adding that he would call an associate there to let her know we were coming.
Before leaving for UCLA, I also called Allison.
“Dad?” she said, picking up on the second ring. “I’m at work, so I just have a minute. You’re calling about last night’s murders, right? It looks like the terrorists aren’t dead, at least not all of them. It’s all over the news, and the video they released this morning is worse than ever, if that’s possible.”
“There’s been another terrorist murder? I hadn’t heard,” I replied, shaken by the news. “But that’s not why I called—”
“Turn on your TV,” Allison broke in. “This time an entire family in Hancock Park was executed.”
“I’m sorry to hear that, Ali. But that’s not why I called.” Quickly, I told my daughter what had happened. There was a long silence when I finished.
Finally Allison spoke. “Oh, my God,” she said softly. “This is my fault. I knew Nate was having problems. I should have seen this coming. I should have talked with him.”
“If anyone’s to blame, it’s me,” I said. “We’re leaving for the UCLA Med Center right now. I don’t know what’s going to happen, but getting Nate some help is the first step.”
“I’ll meet you there.”
“That’s not necessary, Ali, but—”
“I’ll see you there. And . . . and tell Nate I love him.”
“I will,” I promised. “I’ll tell him we all love him. Unfortunately, right now I don’t think that’s going to help.”
Minutes later Dorothy, Nate, and I piled into the Suburban, Dorothy sliding into the passenger seat in front, Nate sitting silently in the rear. As I started the car, I noticed that Catheryn’s Volvo was parked several spaces back. On our return drive the previous evening, I had called Brian Safire—a friend at the Malibu Sheriff’s Department—and asked him to retrieve Catheryn’s car, having left the keys for him inside the vehicle. As I pulled onto PCH and merged into rush-hour traffic, I made a mental note to thank Brian for his help.
Although on the ride to Westwood Dorothy tried to engage Nate in conversation, his answers were brief and perfunctory. Eventually she gave up, after which no one spoke. Twenty minutes later, as I passed through the McClure Tunnel and joined traffic on the Santa Monica Freeway, my cellphone rang. Thinking it was Allison, I answered without checking the number.
“We’re still a few minutes out, Ali,” I said. “Where are you?”
“This isn’t Ali,” said a deep voice belonging to Assistant Chief Strickland.
Strickland was the last person I wanted to hear from, and I considered hanging up. Instead I said, “Assistant Chief Strickland, this isn’t a good time. Can I call you back—”
“No, you may not,” Strickland interrupted. “In case you haven’t heard, there’s been a new development on the terrorist case.”
“I heard,” I said, waiting for the other shoe to drop.
“The chief wants you in his office.”
“I’m on injury leave.”
“I don’t care if you’re in a body cast. Get down here.
“No can do, Assistant Chief Strickland,” I said, glancing at Nate in the review mirror. “Something has come up—”
“Let me make myself perfectly clear, Kane. You will either be in Chief Ingram’s office within the hour, or you can consider your LAPD career at an end.”
“In that case, let me make myself perfectly clear, Assistant Chief Strickland,” I said. “I’m in the middle of a family emergency. I will see Chief Ingram in his office as soon as I’m able. If that’s not good enough, tough.”
Allison met us outside the UCLA Medical Center Emergency reception room. On the verge of tears, she gave Nate a hug, then hugged Dorothy and me as well. Leaving Allison and Dorothy in the reception area, Nate and I spent the next twenty minutes with an admissions and registration counselor. After that, while Dorothy and Allison remained in the reception area, a triage nurse escorted Nate and me to a treatment room down the hall.
For the next half hour, as I sat in a chair to one side, the nurse examined Nate and took a brief medical history, purportedly to determine the severity of his condition. Although Nate answered her questions truthfully, admitting that he had intended to end his life the previous night, he seemed strangely remote, as if he no longer cared what happened to him. When asked by the nurse whether he still wanted to die, he looked away and shrugged.
Next an emergency department physician, accompanied by a second doctor who introduced himself a
s an attending psychiatry resident from the UCLA Neuropsychiatric Institute, entered the room. At that point the triage nurse and I stepped out.
While Nate’s examination continued, the triage nurse and a social worker from the hospital met with Allison, Dorothy, and me in a corner of the reception area. We were all interviewed at length regarding Nate’s suicide attempt, as well as being asked our opinion of his current mental state. Although many questions were posed, it seemed the most important ones regarded Nate’s ongoing depression, his access to and willingness to use lethal methods to harm himself, and the strength of his family and support groups.
During that time Dr. Maggie Freimer, the professional associate that Dr. Berns had mentioned calling on Nate’s behalf, sought me out in the reception area. Dr. Freimer, a short, middle-aged woman with a direct, no-nonsense manner, was the director of UCLA’s Semel Institute for Neuroscience and Human Behavior. She explained that although she was not a clinician, she knew that as things progressed we would have questions regarding Nate’s treatment, and that she would be happy to help in any way she could—including checking on Nate from time to time if inpatient treatment was indicated.
Later Arnie, Deluca, and Lieutenant Long arrived. When I looked at them questioningly, Arnie shrugged and said, “Allison called.”
“We’re so sorry, Dan,” said Lieutenant Long. “If there’s anything we can do, just name it.”
“I will. And thanks for being here. It means a lot,” I said, not trusting myself to say more.
After what seemed forever, the emergency physician and the attending psych resident came out to speak with us. Neither was smiling. Allison, Dorothy, and I stood as they approached. The psychiatric resident, whose nameplate read “Dr. James Rota,” spoke first. “I’m sure you have a lot of questions, so I’ll be direct,” he said. “We need to keep Nate here for inpatient treatment. He’ll have to stay for several days, possibly more. We won’t know how long until we’ve had time to further assess his condition.”
“Whatever is necessary,” I said. “And whatever the cost. We want the best possible treatment.”
Dr. Rota nodded. “Sometimes families want to take their loved ones home with them immediately. That is not an option for Nate. Adolescents who have attempted suicide are considered high-risk patients, and Nate falls into that category. As such, I’m directing that your son be admitted to the Resnick Neuropsychiatric Hospital here in the medical center. Our immediate focus will be Nate’s safety. He will be initially placed on a twenty-four-hour watch to ensure there are no further attempts at self-harm. During this time we will complete a psychological assessment for a possible mental disorder—in Nate’s case the most likely being a condition known as major depressive disorder.”
“Can we visit him?” asked Allison.
“Yes. There are visiting hours, depending on each patient’s situation,” Dr. Rota replied. “I strongly encourage you all to visit Nate as much as possible. I can’t stress enough the importance of continued family contact during this initial period.”
“We’ll visit every day,” Allison promised, glancing at me. “Right?”
“Right,” I said.
“Absolutely,” added Dorothy.
“That will make a big difference,” said Dr. Rota. “I realize families often have responsibilities including work, but—”
“This is more important than work,” I said. “We’ll be here.”
“Every day,” added Allison.
Dr. Rota nodded again, seeming satisfied.
“How long will Nate have to be hospitalized?” asked Dorothy.
“A minimum of seventy-two hours will be required for his initial evaluation,” the doctor answered, glancing at me. “Additional time may be necessary, again depending on the situation. Please understand that because of the risk of self-harm, Nate will not be allowed to leave against medical advice. To that end, there will be some papers you’ll need to sign.”
“Of course,” I agreed, feeling as if I were stumbling through a dark, unspeakable nightmare.
“Fine,” said the doctor. “Once we know more, we can talk about a possible treatment plan for your son. In the meantime, the ER staff is preparing to move him to the Resnick Hospital wing. This might be a good time for you all to say goodbye.”
Dorothy, Allison, and I spent a final few minutes with Nate, who for the most part seemed indifferent to our presence. Later, on our way back to the reception area, Allison pulled me aside, telling Dorothy that we’d catch up in a moment.
Once Dorothy had proceeded on, Allison turned to face me. “There’s something I have to tell you,” she said, her expression informing me that whatever it was, it wasn’t good.
“More bad news?”
“You could say that. Brent discovered the identity of the LAPD’s ‘mystery hero.’ CBS notified the LAPD that we would be releasing the officer’s name later this morning. It was you, Dad.”
“Damn,” I said. Although I’d realized my name would come out sooner or later, I had hoped it would be later.
“Before long, a gazillion people are going to recognize your face, Dad.”
“A gazillion? Swell.”
“I’m certain Brent got his information from the same source as his pizza-connection tip,” Allison continued, regarding me with a look I couldn’t quite decipher. “You saved that woman’s life, Dad. I’m proud of you.”
“I did what I had to,” I replied. “But in doing that, I’ve put our family at risk again,” I added, coming to a decision. “I’m sorry, Ali, but you have to leave. You need to get somewhere far away from here, and you need to do that immediately. So does Dorothy.”
“Why?”
“Because there are more of those guys out there, and they’re still killing people. According to an FBI friend, the Bureau received a credible threat that as soon as my name was made public, I would be in the terrorists’ crosshairs—along with anyone who’s close to me, including my family.”
“I’m not worried. And I’m not going anywhere.”
“Ali, I know you’re all wrapped up in this news story, but your safety is more important than any job.”
“This isn’t about my job. This is about Nate. You heard what the doctor said. Nate needs us.”
“Ali—”
“I called Travis, too,” Allison cut me off. “He’s flying back tonight. Mike will be home by then, too.”
“Damn it, Allison. You don’t understand what’s involved here.”
“I do, Dad. I understand exactly what’s involved, and I promise I’ll cooperate in every way possible to make certain that nothing bad happens. But I’m not leaving. Nate needs us, and I’m staying. I’m positive Travis and Dorothy will feel the same. Mike, too. I’d think that you, of all people, would understand. Or have you forgotten?”
“Forgotten what?”
“It’s something you’ve been drilling into us our whole lives, starting when we were kids,” Allison replied.
“And that is?”
“Kanes stand together . . . no matter what.”
Chapter 37
Would you like me to call Nate’s school?” Dorothy asked on the drive to LAPD headquarters. “Someone should probably explain his absence.”
I’d offered to drop Dorothy at the beach house before proceeding to PAB. Insisting that making an extra trip was unnecessary, she had joined me on the ride downtown. “Yes, I agree,” I said. “I hadn’t thought about that, but you’re right.”
“What do you want me to tell them?”
My initial reaction was simply to tell school authorities that Nate was sick. As I was about to reply, I hesitated, recalling Berns’s words regarding the unfair shame and stigma our society placed on mental illness. “Tell them that Nate is dealing with depression following his mother’s death,” I said instead, deciding that curtailing the cycle of shame had to start somewhere. Nate’s depression wasn’t his fault, any more than if he had broken his arm. “Tell them he’s having a hard time, an
d we’re getting him some treatment.”
“Are you sure?”
“I’m sure.”
Twenty minutes later, after leaving the Suburban in the parking structure on First Street, Dorothy and I walked the remaining distance to PAB. Leaving Dorothy to wait for me in a nearby café, I proceeded to the main entrance alone.
Once again, an armada of news vans jammed the street out front. Not surprised by their presence, I hung my shield on my coat and pushed through PAB’s glass doors into the lobby. Once inside, I bulled my way through a further logjam of journalists, ignoring shouted questions from nearly every reporter there—every one of them referring to me by name.
Apparently the word was out.
Upon arriving at the tenth floor, I was immediately ushered into Chief Ingram’s private office. “It’s about time you showed up,” said Assistant Chief Strickland as I entered. “I ordered you here three hours ago.”
Snead was present as well. Ignoring both Strickland and Snead, I addressed Chief Ingram. “I had a family emergency, as I explained to Assistant Chief Strickland. This was the soonest I could get here, and I’m here now. So what’s this about?”
“Before we go any further, I suggest you adjust your attitude, Kane,” warned Snead. “In case you’ve forgotten, you’re still the subject of an FID use-of-force inquiry. That investigation could go either way.”
I turned to Snead. “Bill, as I’ve told you repeatedly, I don’t respond well to threats.”
Snead’s face darkened. “I swear to God, you’re going to regret your insubordination. I’ll make certain of it.”
“I agree,” Strickland jumped in. “You can’t just waltz in here and—”
“Let’s cut the bull,” I interrupted, struggling not to lose my temper. “The FID investigation will exonerate me. If there were ever any question of that, the video from the terrorists’ camera will clear me.” Noticing something in Strickland’s eyes, I added, “But you already knew that, didn’t you?”
