by Alicia Scott
She’d showered for a long time, trying to cleanse the images from her mind, trying to pretend she didn’t have tears on her cheeks. Trying to tell herself it was only the stress of her new job that had her nerves so frayed.
In the end, however, she knew herself too well to be fooled. Right after the divorce, all of her nights had been like this. Dreaming of Mike, reaching for Mike, waking up alone. One week, crazed and sleep deprived, she’d driven all the way to his apartment. She’d sat in her car, rehearsing what she’d say.
I’m sorry about the house, Mike. Sorry I made you move into some beige and glass monstrosity that you never felt was home. We should’ve found a new house together, where we’d both feel comfortable.
I’m sorry about my parents, Mike. Sorry they made you feel second-rate or second-class. I should’ve told my mom to drop it—love me, love you.
I’m sorry about all the fights, Mike. Sorry I didn’t know how to talk to you without it turning into war. Sorry I didn’t know how to get you to understand what I needed, sorry I chattered so incessantly about work.
And I’m sorry you never felt you could talk to me about your day. I’m sorry you belonged more to the police force than to me. I’m sorry your family came first, then your partner, and in the end, you’d rather spend your evenings with anyone but me. I’m sorry that in the end, you didn’t even want my body anymore, and I knew our marriage was over the first morning I woke up and found you asleep on the sofa. I’m sorry you grew to hate me that much and love me so little.
She’d put her car into gear and driven away then without looking back. And from then on, she’d focused on getting Mike Rawlins out of her dreams, not back into her life.
But here he was now. They were working together. She had to see him day after day, watching the way he strode confidently down the halls, memorizing the fluid movements of his hands, catching that careless wink. Someday she’d probably encounter him leaving the building with another woman. Or hear stories of some date. Watch him flirt, seduce, fall in love with someone else.
Her hands tightened on the edge of the ceramic sink. For a moment, that thought hurt so much Sandra didn’t think she could bear it.
Then she forced her hands to loosen. She forced herself to take a deep breath. She reminded herself that these were the choices she had made. And she was strong; she could handle anything. Including her ex-husband. Including a troubled boy named Vee.
A minute later, Sandra was on the phone. Her first call woke the man up, but went well. Her second call was slightly more nerve-racking to make.
“Good morning, Rusty. Did I wake you? Good. Listen, Mike keeps telling me you’re a good cop. I’m not sure I believe him, yet, Detective, but for his sake, I’m willing to give you a second chance. My office, ten o’clock. This time try to make it.
“You have a meeting with the high school principal at seven? Well, if you magically find Vee, all the better. If you don’t, I’ll assume you’ll be at the meeting. Don’t worry, Rusty, you won’t even have to listen to me speak. You wanted someone who actually knows these kids and these streets. Well, I’ve found him for you. Don’t be late.”
Sandra hung up the phone. Then she went burrowing into her walk-in closet for her best power suit. It was going to be one of those days.
Dr. Howard Mayes was a bear of a man. Even a charcoal-colored three-piece suit did nothing to diminish the girth of his barrel chest or the thick size of his legs. Sandra suspected football somewhere in his background. She had escorted the grizzly-haired professor to one of the interrogation rooms while they waited for Mike and Rusty. Dr. Mayes read Vee’s two letters, scrawling copious notes in the margins.
She left him long enough to meet with her lieutenants again. Patrol Officer Fletcher had gone home from the hospital last night and would be fit to return to duty by next week. Ricochet, Sandra reminded everyone firmly, and was pleasantly surprised to finally earn a few approving nods. They discussed doubling up patrol cars in the east side for safety. They discussed making vests mandatory for all officers until the crisis passed. They discussed the mayor’s concerns if a shooting did erupt, and the need to handle the situation delicately.
Sandra wasn’t sure, but she had the impression her lieutenants were satisfied with the decisions she’d made. Doing her best to protect her officers without backing down from a threat. Handling the politics with the mayor while trusting her police officers to get the job done. Maybe the animosity toward her ran a little shallower today. Maybe it was the suit.
At ten, Mike and Rusty joined her in the interrogation room with Dr. Mayes. The meeting with the high school principal must not have gone well for they both looked glum.
Rusty saw Dr. Mayes and his perpetual scowl deepened. Mike saw Sandra and performed a double take. Sandra definitely attributed that to her suit. This morning’s hunter-green ensemble sported a formfitting jacket smartly tailored over a surprisingly short skirt. The saleswoman had assured Sandra that the authoritative lines of the jacket offset the unprofessional hem length of the skirt. Plus, she’d confided, Sandra had the legs for it. Judging from Mike’s sudden inhalation of breath, he agreed.
Sandra started off the meeting feeling better than she had in days.
“Dr. Howard Mayes, may I please introduce the two detectives in charge of the case—Detective Rusty Koontz and Detective Mike Rawlins. Rusty and Mike, this is Dr. Mayes from Boston University’s sociology department. In addition to being an expert on gang psychology, he grew up in South Boston with firsthand experience in the area.”
“I lost my older brother to a drive-by,” Dr. Mayes interjected deeply. “I lost my younger brother to cocaine. I chose the church, figuring I might as well start out close to God because everyone in my family ended up with him anyway. Then education became my ticket out.”
Sandra nodded, doing her best to pretend that Koontz wasn’t rolling his eyes. “I’ve asked Dr. Mayes to help give us an understanding of how Vee thinks and how we might best approach him once we identify him. I know the gut reaction among many officers is to go in guns blazing, but the mayor and I both feel it’s imperative that this situation not end violently. The boy is only thirteen, and he hasn’t actually harmed anyone yet. We need to keep that in mind.”
“Tell that to Fletcher,” Koontz muttered.
“Officer Fletcher is fine, Detective. Thanks for asking.”
Koontz glared at her. She returned his gaze until Mike interjected casually, “Come on, Rusty. As long as we’re here, we might as well listen to the good doctor. It’s not every day we get an expert visiting our small town all the way from Boston. I think this means we’re finally important. Or just unlucky as hell.”
Dr. Mayes chuckled. “Not important,” he declared in his sonorous voice. “Not unlucky. Just typical. We are producing Vees all across this country, I’m afraid. Confused, angry African-American males, trying to come of age in an environment of severe poverty, drugs and racism. It’s a confusing time in a boy’s life. It’s an angry time. And in the inner cities, it can be deadly.
“Come on, Detectives. You must remember how it was to be thirteen. Peach fuzz on the cheeks. Hair under the arms. Starting to notice that girls smell differently, move differently, have chests…”
Dr. Mayes paused strategically. Sandra noticed that Koontz was looking self-conscious by the personal turn in conversation but was nodding reluctantly. Mike, of course, was nodding wholeheartedly. Alexandria’s Don Juan was probably remembering exactly what girl he’d noticed first. How she moved, how she looked. That first kiss… Sandra edged back a few feet so she didn’t give in to the urge to slug her ex-husband.
“Now, in any suburban or rural environment,” Dr. Mayes continued easily, “there are outlets for this hormone-crazed time in a boy’s life. Hard labor around the farm to blow off steam. Organized sports like Little League baseball or Pop Warner Football to marshal all that raging testosterone and give it focus. But in an inner-city environment, these resources are sorely la
cking. No Little League games or amateur football. Pickup games of b-ball are the trend, but hoops are hard to come by. So that’s our first problem—Vee’s got all these hormones, all these raging emotions, and no productive outlet available.
“Which brings us to the second point. Vee is on the brink of manhood. He’s looking around, searching for someone to emulate. Who does an inner-city black kid have as a role model? Statistics tell us most of their fathers are in jail, uncles, too. There are sports heroes, but they are distant models. Who does a child in the projects see day in and day out?” Dr. Mayes didn’t wait for answer. He boomed, “Drug dealers, that’s who. The young, successful urban entrepreneur is most likely a dope dealer, a high roller. And this young man is employing other youths, buying his mama a new car, and decking out his girlfriend in gold chains. He seems to be the only path to success. Except then there are the drug-related shootings and the gang violence that go hand in hand with the life-style. So now Vee’s gotta think, being a successful black entrepreneur also means winding up dead. Good life, but a short life. What’s a kid to do?”
“Shoot up cops,” Koontz growled. “Freakin’ fine role model there.”
Dr. Mayes shook his head. He looked at Koontz almost pityingly. “Detective, you are not understanding this child yet. He doesn’t hate cops. He hates young black males. And he’s not trying to hurt cops. This boy is trying to hurt himself.”
“Huh?”
For once in her life, Sandra agreed with Koontz. Even Mike was looking confused. Dr. Mayes took a deep breath.
“Let me try to make this clear. It has been a source of puzzlement for quite some time that the number-one killer of young black men is young black men. In sociology circles, we’ve been trying to make sense of this by interviewing urban African-Americans about what it means to be African-American. Frankly, that’s a conflicting thing. These children grow up surrounded by their own race, but in an environment none of them like. So they try to leave. At some point in every inner-city child’s life comes the first bus trip out. And if this journey is to a predominantly white neighborhood, what is the first thing this child encounters? Racism. Women locking their car doors or crossing to the other side of the street. Patrol cops stopping the child for no good reason. Store owners chasing him out of their establishments. It’s shocking the first time. Then it’s simply haunting. Everywhere this child goes, he gets the message he’s unwanted. So he has to take the bus trip back to the projects, which he now recognizes as some kind of punishment for a crime he never committed. This is an inner-city black male’s first lesson when he searches for his identity. He is a criminal. He doesn’t understand why, but he’s fundamentally unloved.
“At the same time, of course, a child like Vee is taking social studies classes telling him he lives in a country where all men are created equal. But this just makes things worse—what he’s being told about the world and how he feels about the world don’t meet. There’s this huge disconnection, fueled by every white teacher who shies away from him and every well-intentioned social worker who looks down on him, that leaves him angry and confused.
“Young, urban African-American males report feeling trapped, feeling ashamed. There is a pressure building inside of them and they begin to resent that pressure. And what’s causing it, what’s putting them in this position? As far as they can tell, it’s the fact that they are black. So they start to hate the fact they are black. And they start to turn on other black males—subconsciously, of course, fueled by gangland wars and survival instincts, but it’s there.”
“Yo, hold up.” Koontz was looking confused again, but he was also engaged in the conversation, which gave Sandra hope. “If Vee hates being black so much, why doesn’t he declare war on other gang members. Why us?”
“Because his feelings are too conflicted on the subject. Look at his letters, Detective. In the first letter, he writes about his sister being hit by a stray bullet in a drive-by. This obviously bothers him. In the second letter, he goes so far as to say that he was raised to know better than to hurt females, that it’s wrong. Thus, he is not as much a homeboy as he would pretend in other places. There are things being done by his peers that he doesn’t approve of. In the second letter, however, he reveals classic hurt and anger toward white society, as well. He tried to enter the white community and he was shunned. When he says here that he tried to remove his face, don’t take him figuratively. Self-mutilation is a sign of keen self-loathing. Vee is receiving the message that he should hate his own skin, and he is reacting accordingly.
“Fundamentally, this child is at a crossroads. He is confused, disenfranchised by both blacks and whites. He doesn’t like the violence of youth killing youth, hence his need to sound so casual and accepting of it. But nor can he accept white authority—these are the people who look down on him, who allowed his sister to be hurt, who may or may not have taken an active role in killing his father. Vee doesn’t know where to turn or what to believe in, and yet he does want something to believe in. He is trying to provoke a reaction that will tell him which way to turn.”
“What do you mean by that?” Sandra asked sharply.
Dr. Mayes shrugged. “He is walking a dangerous path, Chief Aikens. I believe there is some part of him that doesn’t want to be pushed to violence, hence he fired warning shots last night. He writes with genuine affection of his mother and has stated twice that she’s taught him what’s right. That’s a sign of some semblance of self-worth—a part of him sees himself as a good person capable of distinguishing between right and wrong.
“But day after day, Vee is also forced to live in a world where he feels he’s invisible and unwanted. As time passes without something happening to alleviate his confusion and self-loathing, I fear he will edge closer and closer to violence. The anger and hopelessness is wearing him down, flattening him out. In several places, he writes there’s nothing he can do to change things. That is the sign of someone abdicating responsibility for their own actions, a natural predecessor to doing something someone knows is wrong. He goes on to write that the devil be on his shoulder, definitely an indication of low self-esteem. Now look at the rest of the closing of his second letter—‘God be with…’ That is the tone of someone who doesn’t expect to be around much longer. Someone who is letting go.”
“He’s a time bomb,” Sandra filled in. “And if we don’t find him soon, help him make the right decision, he’ll go off.”
“I think it’s possible,” Dr. Mayes agreed, “and I think if it happens, there will be no turning back. He is a self-destructive adolescent who talks about death, not prison.”
“Suicide by cop,” Mike stated.
Dr. Mayes nodded soberly. “I believe that’s how it might play out.”
For once, even Koontz appeared pale and troubled. “Sheeesh,” the older detective sighed. “One confused thirteen-year-old and the whole city could go to hell.”
“On the bright side,” Dr. Mayes commented, “it could go the other way. Maybe his mother says the right word one day or a schoolteacher praises his project and boom, that brings him back around. Teenagers are wonderfully fickle like that. Ask any parent.”
“But we can’t count on that,” Mike said dryly.
“Absolutely,” Sandra agreed. “What do you recommend, Dr. Mayes? There must be some way of reaching this boy before things go too far.”
“Certainly. First off, Chief Aikens, you draft a reply to Vee’s letter.”
“Oh, my.” Sandra was taken aback. “What if I said the wrong thing? What if I made it worse?”
She gazed at all three men pleadingly. Koontz looked stricken, too, so maybe they had finally found common ground. Dr. Mayes appeared calm, however, and Mike seemed to be already considering the idea.
“I’d work with you,” Dr. Mayes said. “We’d draft a simple letter, designed to let Vee know that his feelings are understandable and common. He needs to feel a connection with someone and receive validation of his self-worth. That alone could g
o a long way toward easing him through his confusion. At least it might keep him from taking any immediate action.
“Secondly, we work to identify him and bring him in so we can continue the conversations one-on-one. Vee needs professional help, but he’s certainly not beyond reaching. Frankly, I find the letters very encouraging. And articulate.”
“I don’t know,” Koontz said. “You start talking suicide by cop, I start thinking we should stay clear of his doorstep. What if he freaks, what if he overreacts? Hell, I’ve never tried talking to a thirteen-year-old gangbanger ’bout life. That’s what prison’s for.”
“There isn’t anyone more qualified than a cop to approach him.”
“No, sir!”
“Detective, take away the badge and legal trappings and cops are nothing but a gang themselves. Think about it. Gang members are initiated through a hostile ‘jumping in’ program. How many rookies have you razed and tormented in your career?”
Koontz flushed. Dr. Mayes smiled knowingly and continued. “Gang members can have friends who are not gang members, but they will never be important. Likewise, cops are almost never close to people outside of the department. They have wives and families, sure, but they mostly hang out with other cops.”
Sandra couldn’t help herself; she gave Mike a look. He immediately glanced away.
“Then there are partners. A gang member will go to any extreme to avenge a fellow member’s death. A police officer would surely do the same if the law didn’t stop him, and we all know there are cases when a police officer finds a way to do that anyway.”
Koontz fidgeted in his chair. Mike wore a self-conscious smile.
“So you see,” Dr. Mayes concluded, “you already have a great deal in common with Vee. You simply need to approach him calmly, man to man. He cares about his mother, you care about yours. He’s protective of his sister. Most likely you are protective of yours. He is an experienced member of the streets, just as you are experienced members of the law enforcement community. Engage him in a conversation, treat him respectfully, and hopefully he’ll cooperate.”
