by Mark Zubro
“I asked. They claimed they only knew superficial stuff. I guessed there was more. That’s why I wanted a second meeting with both of them. One after the other on that roof. Maybe even later on at some other venue, or hell the same venue with both of them together. No matter what scenario I can imagine, now I’ll never know.”
Turner examined the nearly starless city sky above them for several moments.
Ian looked up at the universe and asked. “What real good does an extra dead activist or two make?” After several beats, he answered his own question. “Not much, in the larger scheme of things.”
“You know some of these people. Who do you suspect?”
“All the gay people showing up hated Shaitan.”
“How were you going to kill him?”
“Push him off the roof.”
“Doesn’t sound like a really well-thought-out plan. Was it an impulse you’d never have given into, or were you planning to stand and be caught?”
Ian shrugged. “I guess an impulse. I hated him.”
“Why’d you come tonight?”
“Guilt and hoping for forgiveness. I figured you’d find out. You find out everything. You always do.” He looked his friend in the eye. “Are you going to forgive me?”
“For being yourself? I broke up with you for some of the same reasons. You know who you are and what you’re like. My forgiveness or lack of forgiveness isn’t going to affect who you are. Am I pissed because you lied? Yes. Am I going to arrest you? No. Fenwick I can’t answer for.”
Ian got up to leave, “Confessions over. I’ll let you get to bed.” He stood up, turned to his friend. “Why is there a cop watching your place?”
“I didn’t know there was. Where?”
“I guess just shy of Mrs. Talucci’s jurisdiction, or he’s more careful than most.”
Paul gazed out at the street, saw nothing untoward, shrugged, and said, “Molton probably taking a precaution, and I have faith in Mrs. Talucci’s connections.”
“They’ve never failed yet.”
Paul stood up and put a restraining hand on Ian’s arm. “Why isn’t your visit here now part of trying to fuck up the investigation?”
“You think I’d do that?”
“Do you possibly think if you came to me, I wouldn’t ask all the questions a good cop would? You knew that when you came.”
“Yeah. I know. Don’t you ever get tired of playing by the rules?”
“Would you like me to stop?”
Ian caught his friend’s eyes. He shook his head. “No, I guess not.”
“I have my sons and my husband and my conscience to answer to.”
“What does your gut say about me being guilty or innocent?”
“My gut says I want forensic evidence before making an arrest.”
“I guess I counted on that, too.”
They stood in silence. Paul let it drag an uncomfortable length of time. He wanted Ian uncomfortable. He didn’t think his friend was a murderer, but he was furious about the omissions.
At last, Paul said, “I’m going to bed.” He got to the door.
Ian put his foot on the top porch step. “Aren’t you going to tell me not to leave town?”
Paul smiled at his friend’s attempt at levity. He shook his head.
After Ian left, Paul took more time to examine the cars parked along both curbs. He saw no benign protectors nor any lurking predators.
In the house, he checked Jeff’s first floor room. The boy was fast asleep. Upstairs, Brian’s door was ajar with light streaming out.
Paul knocked softly and put his head around the opening. Brian looked up from the book he was reading. He asked, “You okay?”
Paul nodded. He sat on the edge of Brian’s bed. The boy had changed to his summer sleeping outfit, baggy basketball shorts, ankle socks, and a T-shirt taut on his flat abs that also managed to show off the bulging muscles of his arms and shoulders.
His son’s eyes searched Paul’s. The boy rolled his shoulder muscles, an unconscious sign of his teenage stress. “Been a while since you were shot at.”
“I’m okay.”
“I meant.” The boy pulled in a deep breath. “I’m glad you called earlier. I still worry about you. I guess I always will.”
“Just like I worry about you.” He paused for a moment as they both thought about their concern then Paul said, “It’s okay. I’m fine. We’ve talked about worry being a part of a cop’s family’s life.”
“Doesn’t make it easier. They gonna fire that asshole Carruthers?” Paul didn’t talk about his cases with his kids, but they’d all heard stories of the multi-Stupid-Award winning Carruthers. The cops had a betting pool each year on the dumbest criminal who committed the most useless crime. They called it the Stupid-Award. Years ago their inept coworker had been given an honorary entry into the competition. Since being added, with an emphasis on stupid rather than criminal, Carruthers had won multiple times.
“Yeah. He’s off the job for now, and they’ll go through the process, but he should be gone.”
“Good, one less thing to worry about.”
When Paul entered their room, Ben put down the book he was reading, Mr. Mercedes by Stephen King. Paul got undressed and sat on the edge of their bed in his gray boxer briefs.
Ben raised an eyebrow. “What did Ian want?”
“He misspoke in his statements to us.”
“About what?”
Turner told him. He finished, “I’m a bit afraid that he might still be holding something back.”
“Why?”
“I don’t know. I’m tired.”
Ben swung his legs out from under the covers and sat behind Paul with his legs draped on either side of him. He kneaded his husband’s shoulders.
Ben murmured, “You’re not okay?”
“Not really.”
“Ian?”
Paul smiled. He leaned back into his husband’s strong hands. “Not Ian.” He sighed. “When I get home is when I’m scared, or at least it’s when I have the time to let all the emotions of the day catch up with me.”
Ben stopped and sat next to him on the edge of the bed. He wore a pair of white, classic fit boxers.
Paul let the turbulent sensations of the day, all that he’d held in while working and in front of the boys, rush over him. Ben put his arm around him. Paul nestled into the warmth and closeness.
After a few minutes, he leaned his head back and said, “I was scared. In the midst of that wildness, what I thought about most was you and the boys. About all the things I’d never do with the three of you.” He shuddered.
Paul had more to say. “And I’ve been wondering, in moments when we weren’t madly dashing about, what if we were five or ten seconds earlier.” He hesitated then added, “Or later. Now those thoughts are like headlights coming straight at me.”
“You did what you could. You had less than seconds to decide.”
“I saw that dumb fuck’s gun. The huge black muzzle pointing at us, me. It’s like he was pointing it at my whole world.”
He shut his eyes and felt Ben’s warmth soothing him as nothing else could.
After a few minutes, Ben said, “I was wondering.”
“Yeah?”
“Maybe Carruthers is suicidal? Maybe he wanted to get shot.”
Paul shrugged. “I don’t know. He wanted to talk to me at the station.” Paul filled him in.
When he finished, Ben shook his head, “When it comes down to it, I don’t care what happens to that dumb son of a bitch. I just care about you.”
“I know you worry.”
“I love you.”
Paul said, “If I died this day and left behind the notion, I am loved by you, and I have two beautiful sons, that would be okay. That would be my definition of a good life.”
Paul put his head on Ben’s shoulder. Ben held him tight and Paul whispered his own, “I love you.”
The tired detective let the waves of relief wash over him. He was love
d and loved someone in turn. Was that enough? It was for tonight.
They turned out the lights. Paul crawled into bed and they snuggled together. Paul heard his husband’s breathing become regular. He lay awake longer than he wished, staring at the ceiling and wondering about friends and murder, his sons, his husband, and death. His fear of the vagaries of the universe most often allayed by the activity of his job, the joyful burden of his sons, and the love of his husband.
Except moments when his fears did more than nibble at his consciousness. He listened to his sleeping husband breathe as he slept.
Paul’s mind churned with flashes of blood, gore, and possible death. The longer he brooded the larger the black hole of Carruthers’s barrel grew in his imagination.
Finally, he lay with his fingers laced behind his head staring at the ceiling of their room. He could hear the air-conditioning. He saw the shadows of the backyard trees tremble on the walls of their room, back-lit by the distant light in the alley.
Giving up, he eased out of bed to avoid waking Ben. His husband stirred but did not waken.
In his boxer briefs, he padded downstairs, through the kitchen and onto the back porch. The air was warm this June night. In the deepest shadows of the covered, screened-in porch was their old family swing-rocker. He remembered being rocked in it when he was a kid. He remembered rocking his boys when they were babies. Other than being in Ben’s arms, this was maybe his most comfortable, safe place on Earth. He rocked only an inch or two. He let his mind wander to love and loss, happiness and despair.
He smelled the basil and sage from Ben’s herb garden. The dampness of the earth from the drizzle earlier. The harshness of the humidity still filled with promise of storms to come.
He must have nodded off, because when he woke, Ben was sitting next to him on the swing. Paul found his head on Ben’s shoulder. Feeling him come awake, Ben reached over and caressed the stubble on Paul’s chin.
Paul whispered, “Couldn’t sleep.”
Ben also kept his voice low. Paul loved the deep thrum. “I’ve been here for fifteen minutes. You must be exhausted.”
Paul nodded.
Together they made their way upstairs to bed and blessed sleep.
Friday 7:38 A.M.
Paul wanted to get an early start on the day, get into work, and get on with solving problems. He also had an early meeting with a team from the Police Review board. Ben was in the shower. He didn’t need to be at work at his auto shop until ten.
Paul joined him in the shower.
Both boys were still in the house. Brian almost certainly asleep at this hour of a summer morning. Jeff downstairs probably plotting how to enervate his parents.
Ben and Paul were careful about lovemaking noises when the boys were around. They preferred long, wild lovemaking sessions. Like all parents, they balanced and danced a delicate privacy ballet. A week in the summer when both boys were at a camp of their choosing was like a blissful, butt-pounding interval.
But in the shower, while the time was short, they could get away with more as long as they didn’t become too rambunctious. Paul loved the cascading warm water amid Ben’s fierce embraces.
Paul heard Brian’s shower running as he trooped down the stairs.
He stopped in Jeff’s room. Jeff was in his wheelchair. His torso slumped forward in the chair, his head resting on the computer keyboard. He often wound up so, sleeping after working late at his computer. Or arising early and working away, then not bothering to get back into bed, falling asleep where he sat. Paul moved closer. The boy was fast asleep. No way to tell how early he may have gotten up.
He had a new banner on the wall above his desk, “Free Reid Fleming.” Paul knew this was a reference to his son’s newest pop culture obsession, a cartoon milkman.
Paul glanced at the top papers of each of two printed-out stacks. Intrigued, he riffled through a few. Jeff had one stack of reports about rotten cops and one stack of reports about good cops.
Paul looked up at Ben standing in the doorway. Paul beckoned him over and pointed to the stacks. He whispered, “He’s got tons of each downloaded from the Internet.”
“For what reason?” Ben asked.
“Working out his identity in relation to his cop dad is my guess.”
“You could just ask me.” Jeff’s newly deep voice emerged from the mound of the no-longer-sleeping teen. “You’re not the only one who could can go undercover.”
Ben left for the kitchen to work on breakfast, less ritualized in the summers than it was in the school year.
Paul sat down on Jeff’s bed.
“We’ve talked about my job.”
“I know.”
“I understand, you’re newly worried.”
“I always worry.”
“You don’t show it.”
“You going to change jobs?”
“No.”
“Then what good does me showing I’m worried do?”
“If you’re unhappy, I’d like to discuss that and see if there’s anything to be done.”
“Fine,” Jeff said, “you know what worries me most about your current mess, there’s been tons on the news, and on the Internet, and rumors?”
“What worries you the most?”
“Carruthers.”
“What about him?”
“Cover-up,” Jeff said. “They’re going to cover it up. Shit is going to hit the fan.”
With Brian graduating from high school, the rules on language in the house for both boys had been eased.
Jeff was continuing, “And you and Mr. Fenwick are going to be in the middle of it. I know it. Look at all this Code of Silence shit.”
“Which we’ve talked about.”
“But not when it’s going to be directed at you. And look at the cover-ups of police bad behavior. They’re going to lie. I know they’re going to lie. They always lie.”
Paul said, “I’m going to stick with the truth.”
“Will that be enough?”
“I have to hope so.”
Paul got up to leave.
Jeff touched his arm.
Paul halted.
“Dad, have you covered up crimes other cops committed? Like on that video tape. I’ve seen so much of it. You’re part of the group.”
Paul said, “I have always followed the letter and spirit of the law as best I can. I don’t let people get away with murder. I just do the best job I can, as a cop and taking care of my family.”
Jeff pointed at the stacks of paper. “But I’ve read all this stuff.” He then pointed at his e-reader. “And I’ve read all the recent non-fiction cop books. The realistic ones. What I don’t get is who has that much power to command all that silence and what are they protecting?”
Paul sat down again and looked in his son’s eyes. “Those are good questions. As for why, I’m not sure. Sometimes they’re afraid for their jobs, their reputations, their pensions, other stuff too, I suppose.”
“Why don’t they worry about all those before they lie?”
“That might be your best question so far.” He shook his head. “I don’t know the answer.”
Jeff asked, “How do they have so much power? How can they cover up so much?”
“What do the articles and books say?”
“Contradictory stuff. You know I hate that.”
Paul nodded. He knew his younger son had developed a complex, rigid set of rules for the reality he lived. Partly from living with spina bifida every instant of his life and from being so smart, and maybe because he had good parents. Although the rules seemed to be flexible when mischievous or malevolent teenage Jeff wanted them to be, especially when he was attempting new levels of deviousness to get around his parents’ dictums.
Jeff said, “What none of these talk about, not the books or the articles, are what the police, men and women, are like when they get home? When the cameras aren’t on, are they normal? Carruthers must have a home.”
Paul said, “I know he must.”
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Ben called to them from the kitchen, “Breakfast is ready.”
Paul and Jeff left the boy’s room and moved down the hall. Brian sat at the table drinking from a glass of his special, homemade health juice. He wore a bright orange ASOS sleeveless side-cut T-shirt with extreme dropped armholes and a pair of white silk boxer-briefs. Ben was placing bowls of cut-up fruit at their places. A mound of toast and a pitcher of fresh squeezed juice sat on the table.
Paul filled them in on the conversation he and Jeff had been having.
Jeff asked, “Do the police officers know what they’re doing is wrong?”
“Who?” Ben asked.
“Cops who shoot unarmed people.”
Brian said, “It’s not that they don’t know what they do. They know what they do. They feel entitled to do it.”
They ate. Topics ranged from cop morality back to teenagers’ needs and schedules. Paul preferred the latter this morning as better than dealing with the philosophical and moral implications of someone being in service to the community.
After breakfast, Ben walked Paul out to the front porch. Ben asked, “Are you worried about the Police Board investigation?”
“My union rep will be there. If it’s fair, I don’t think I’ll have a problem.”
“And if it’s unfair?”
“We’ll deal with that if it happens.”
They kissed and hugged goodbye.
Friday 8:18 A.M.
Mrs. Talucci sat on her front porch. Paul went over to share the morning.
Their ninety-something neighbor lived by herself on the ground floor of the house next door. She cared for Jeff every day after school or on weekends depending on the family’s schedules. For several years after she started, she refused all offers of payment. Being neighbors, and nearly family, precluded even discussing such things. But one day Mrs. Talucci couldn’t fix a broken porch. Paul had offered, and since then he’d done all repairs. He and Ben had even completed several major renovations.
One daughter and several distant nieces still inhabited the second floor. While Mrs. Talucci ruled this brood, her main concern was to keep them out of her way and to stay independent.
