by Frank Zafiro
Ryan frowned. Why did he let such thoughts creep into his head? Nathalie was beautiful. That was all. It didn’t matter what the rest of the country thought or didn’t think, so why was he letting these goddamn mind worms eat at him?
The entire train of thought made him drowsy. He could feel sleep coming back on, but whereas it used to be a tidal wave, now it felt more like a change in tides. He couldn’t stop it, but he could hold out for a while.
He watched Nathalie.
I’m lucky, the thought. Lucky to still be on this crazy planet, watching this beautiful woman sleep.
He’d been watching her for several minutes when she stirred and opened her eyes. She saw he was awake and smiled. Her eyes shone with tears.
“Hey, vous,” she whispered.
“Who, moi?” he replied automatically. His voice sounded strange and he felt his dry lips crack when he smiled back, but it all felt wonderful.
“Yes, toujours toi.”
“Always you,” he said back.
It was an exchange that hearkened back to his aborted attempted to learn French, the language of her parents. He figured he’d start there, because her father was Greek, and even his limited foreign language knowledge base told him that Greek was even harder. She tried to teach him herself, but the furthest they ever got were pidgin exchanges. Eventually, he gave up, grateful for her ability to speak English. But he still loved the trace of her French accent that held on, despite her years in country, and the small exchanges that became part of their marital language.
“We thought we lost you,” she said, squeezing his hand.
“You’re not getting rid of me that easy.”
“Tough cop, non?”
“Just love you too much to go anywhere else.” His throat was rough and torn. He reached for the water on the bedside table, but Nathalie was quicker. She held it for him while he drank through the straw.
“The doctor says you need sleep,” she told him. “Lots of it. But he says we’re past the dangerous stage now.”
Ryan imagined what might lay ahead of him. Marcus’ funeral, the investigation, the questions from his own department. The physical danger might be past, but he knew plenty of other dangers still lurked in his future.
Then he realized he hadn’t even considered his own recovery. There’d be physical therapy, and...
He pushed away the thoughts. Tomorrow would take care of tomorrow. He needed to focus on today.
“How are you holding up?” he asked, his voice temporarily stronger after the water.
“Me? I’m fine?”
He looked at her, waiting.
She returned his look, unwavering. “I am fine, truly. Everyone has been very good to me. To us.”
“Who is everyone?”
“Our neighbors. Some of them at least. Art and Maggie have sat with Melina whenever I’ve been here.”
“And how is she?”
“Scared,” Nathalie admitted. “And a little confused. I’ll bring her next time, so she can see you’re going to be all right.”
“That’d be good.”
Nathalie smiled again. Then she said, “Your brother flew out from California. He stayed for several days, and barely left the hospital. He wanted to be here when you awoke, but he finally had to go. There was pressing business in the state capitol.”
“The busy life of a state senator,” Ryan wheezed.
“You shouldn’t make fun. He was very concerned.”
“If you say so.”
“I do.”
“Well, then it must be so,” Ryan said. Then he struck on something. “Wait, did you say days? How long have I been here?”
She cocked her head and calculated. “You were hurt nine days ago.”
Ryan’s head sunk back into the pillow. “Nine,” he repeated in disbelief.
That meant they’d already buried Marcus. He’d missed it. He’d missed the chance to say goodbye, to see the department honor him with all of the pomp and circumstance he deserved.
He felt the tears streaming down his cheeks before he realized he was crying. His chest shuddered, and his throat locked up. He was vaguely aware of Nathalie’s hand tightening around his, and he focused on that sensation, letting it anchor him to this world. Even with it, he slipped back into sleep, although he couldn’t be sure if it overtook him or if he rushed toward it.
HE WOKE AND SLEPT, slept and woke. At some point, he realized he was starting to do at least as much waking as sleeping, and it was around that time people started coming to visit him.
Nathalie was often there, and her presence made everything better. Sometimes she brought Melina, and even though the beauty of his little girl’s face was marred with concern, her smiles still warmed his heart.
The doctor visited daily, updating him on his progress, which seemed slow but steady. At some point, the man’s demeanor shifted subtly from collegial to strictly businesslike. Nathalie noticed it, too, and when she asked Ryan about it, he just shrugged. “I think he must have found out I’m not a party member.”
“Why would he think you were in the first place?”
“I’m a cop,” Ryan said. “Most of us are these days.” He smiled. “Just like most of your journalists aren’t.”
A shadow crossed her face and she frowned. “You’d be surprised. More and more are.”
“More editors, maybe.”
“Like I said, you’d be surprised.”
Ryan felt a twinge of regret at bringing it up. “I’m sorry, babe. I know it’s a sore point.”
Nathalie’s job at The Archway, the weekly free newspaper magazine, was a far cry from the mainstream St. Louis Dispatch, both in terms of income and prestige. Her refusal to abandon her principles when it came to reporting all of the news, and not just the part that the party wanted reported, eventually led to her dismissal. Of course, no one would admit that, just like no one would admit the passive capitulation of much of the mainstream media. But Nathalie was convinced of it, and Ryan thought she was right. Even her work at The Archway was severely muted, but she seemed to hold out hope that some small piece of her voice got through all the editing. At least they ran stories the larger, mainstream news sources wouldn’t.
Nathalie gave him a soft smile and squeezed his hand gently. “Let’s just focus on getting you better, okay?”
“You got it.”
SERGEANT POTULNY SHOWED up a couple of days later. Ryan was initially surprised to see him, but Potulny kept things as impersonal as possible. He gave Ryan some paperwork to sign, placing him on medical reserve status.
“What’s that mean, sergeant?” Nathalie asked him.
Potulny appeared mildly annoyed by her question. “It means that he remains on paid status but has no arrest powers. It’ll be up to the doctors to determine if he’s able to return to full duty.”
“If?” Ryan asked. “You mean when.”
Potulny shrugged. “That’s up to the doctors. Your injuries are pretty severe. Your doctor has indicated that they might be career-ending.”
“Why is his doctor sharing medical information with the department?” Nathalie snapped. “That’s confidential.”
“Some of it is,” Potulny fired back. “But his overall status and the projected results are not. The department has a right to know what those are. For planning purposes.”
Nathalie bristled but said nothing.
“I’m coming back,” Ryan told him.
“We’ll see.”
“Count on it.”
Potulny shrugged again. “Time will tell.” He cleared his throat. “You should focus on your recovery, Officer Derrick. On behalf of the Metro Department, the Party, and your President, I wish you well.” He lifted his hand to his brow in a stiff salute. “MAGA,” he said, barely suppressing a sneer.
Neither Ryan nor Nathalie responded, and after a few moments, Potulny dropped the salute. “Internal Affairs will schedule an interview with you as soon as you’re physically up to it,” he said, all busines
s again.
Ryan had known that was coming, but the idea still sent a chill through him. “I should be all right in a couple of weeks.”
“Your doctor says in about three days.” Potulny smiled humorlessly. “So we’ll just pencil that in.”
“Fine,” Ryan conceded. He wanted to get the experience over with, anyway.
“But if he gets tired, the interview stops,” Nathalie interjected.
“Of course,” Potulny’s flat smile didn’t waver. “We just want what’s best for him. And the truth, of course.” He turned his gaze toward Nathalie. “The truth is everything. I think that’s something our professions have in common.”
Nathalie stared back at him. Ryan could almost hear the rage-filled reply that had to be roaring inside her head, which made it even more impressive that she held her tongue. Telling off a party hack like Potulny might feel good in the moment, but they’d both pay for it in the end.
“Thanks for coming, sergeant,” Ryan said. “But I think I need to get some sleep now.”
Potulny nodded. “Certainly. I’ll see you in a few days, then.” He turned to the door and left without looking back.
“That man is trouble,” Nathalie said once the door had snapped shut behind him.
“He’s a drone, bucking for the next promotion.”
She shook her head. “No, he’s more than that. He’s a believer. He worries me.”
Ryan took her hand. “Forget him,” he said, but he knew neither of them could. Not Potulny, and not all he stood for.
The next day, he met Andrew, his physical therapist. The first moment Ryan saw him, he had an image of Marcus coming toward him. Both men were large, and both were black. Andrew even wore a similar, open expression on his face. Once he was closer, though, Ryan saw that his features were very different, and the timbre of his voice deeper, too. He held out his hand and Ryan took it. Andrew gave him a gentle, unthreatening squeeze.
“So,” Andrew said, “I hear you’re a mess.”
Ryan laughed weakly at that, and immediately trusted the man.
For the first several days, they worked from a seated position. Andrew called it warming up the machine, getting the lubrication moving. He pushed Ryan, but watched carefully at the same time to make sure he didn’t go too far, too fast.
The first day, Nathalie watched on while he worked, but he quickly decided that her presence distracted him too much. As ridiculous as it seemed, he had a desire to impress her, and Andrew sensed that early on. He asked Nathalie to stop coming to the sessions, and she reluctantly agreed.
Andrew was a realist wrapped up in an optimist. He didn’t promise Ryan anything except lots of sweat and some pain, but he offered some hope.
“What’s your goal?” he asked Ryan early on.
“To return to the job.”
“Police officer, right?”
“Yes.”
Andrew nodded slowly. “That’s going to be tough. You know that, right?”
“I know. But it’s possible.”
“It is. You might need another surgery. And being a cop, you’re probably high up on the list.”
Ryan shook his head. “No special treatment. I’m on the list, but it’ll be a while.”
Andrew cocked his head at him. “With you being a cop, I figured you were in the party.”
“Lots of people do.”
“But you’re not.”
“No.”
“Why not?”
Ryan was surprised at the question. Most people didn’t ask it. “That’s a long story, my friend.”
“We appear to have some time on our hands.”
Ryan smiled a little ruefully. “Well, then, we’ll see.”
That seemed good enough for Andrew.
INTERNAL AFFAIRS APPROPRIATED an empty room on the same floor as Ryan’s. When his doctor gave his approval, they waited until a time when Nathalie wasn’t around to come and get him unannounced. A silent orderly wheeled Ryan in and left him there to wait. A single, plain table and hardback chair were the only pieces of furniture in the room. Up high at the ceiling, a pair of cameras perched in the two corners facing him. He ignored them.
Fifteen minutes later, Potulny arrived, entering without knocking and taking up a position near the door. Ryan experienced a flicker of concern when he saw the gaunt man who followed Potulny into the room. His sunken eyes appeared black and dead, and he was preternaturally thin.
Gleeson.
Investigator Gleeson of Internal Affairs had a reputation at Metro that bordered on something between a comic book villain and an urban legend. Rumors swirled around him like smoke. He could supposedly smell a lie, and had the passive ability to hypnotize.
Ryan didn’t believe most of it. For being such a fact-driven profession, cops were notorious gossips and entertained more than a fair share of superstitions. He was reasonably certain that most of what people whispered about Gleeson was utter bullshit.
Most of it.
Gleeson took a seat across from Ryan, taking his time and moving with very precise motions. He folded his hands in front of him on the table and gave Ryan a contemplative look. When he spoke, his voice was like cream poured over broken glass.
“What shall we talk about?”
Ryan took a moment to answer, trying to force any tension to drain from his own voice. “Whatever you need to talk about, Detective.”
Gleeson let a tiny smile touch the corners of his mouth. “I’m a captain, actually.”
Ryan shrugged. He’d heard that rumor, too.
“Normally,” Gleeson said, “once they start promoting someone past the rank of sergeant, that person ends up in the command pool. He gets kicked around from unit to unit like some sort of offering basket in church, getting experience at this and that, looking for that next promotion. But they didn’t do that with me. I made sergeant, and I stayed here. Lieutenant, then captain, still here.” He leaned forward slightly. “Any idea why that might be, Officer Derrick?”
“You’re the Chief’s brother-in-law?” Ryan deadpanned.
Gleeson’s tiny smile spread into a tight-lipped one without humor. “Funny. Sadly, no. I’ve had to earn my brass on merit alone.”
“Good for you, then.”
“Good is the operative word, officer. I am still here because I am too good at my job to be wasted running the motor the pool or a bunch of property crimes detectives. I am here because I get results. I get the truth.”
Ryan watched Gleeson as he spoke. He saw the man’s vanity, and his confidence. “You won’t have to work at it,” he told Gleeson. “I intend to tell the truth.”
“The problem with that statement is that quite literally everyone I sit down with says exactly that.”
“I bet.”
“Of course, if the person is being honest, then it isn’t an issue. But if that person is being deceitful, I have to bring my considerable skills to bear. The problem is that the only way to know is to put things to the test. So unfortunately, that leaves me in the difficult position of having to assume that everyone is lying, and proceed accordingly.”
“You make it sound like you’re going to torture me.”
Gleeson just blinked at him, letting the moment draw out. Then he said, “Of course not, officer. That is ludicrous. I am merely going to ask you some questions about the death of Officer Marcus Washington, and whatever culpability you might have in that event.”
A shot of electricity exploded at the base of Ryan’s skull at those words. He had an insane thought that Gleeson was somehow responsible for the sensation, that he was hooked up to an interrogation apparatus in the wheelchair. But he recognized it as adrenaline even as it flooded his body.
“Culpability?”
Gleeson shrugged. “Perhaps.”
Ryan swallowed thickly. “You know what? I think I’d like to have my attorney present.”
Gleeson gave him a look of pure disappointment. “Why is that, Officer Derrick? Did you do something wrong?”
Ryan set his jaw. “Lawyer,” he said. “Or I’m not talking to you.”
Gleeson shook his head sadly, then glanced up at Potulny. “Sergeant?”
Potulny stepped up to the table and placed a sheet of paper in front of Ryan. “Officer, these are your administrative rights. Follow along as I read them to you.”
“I—” Ryan began.
“That is an order, officer.”
Ryan stared at Potulny’s hard face. The man’s contempt was clear, perhaps only overwhelmed by the fact that he clearly enjoyed being in control. Ryan was going to get no quarter from him. He picked up the paper and read as Potulny spoke.
“Officer Derrick, you are hereby compelled to completely participate in an interview with the Metro Police’s Internal Affairs Division. Said interview will continue as long as the interviewer or his commander’s discretion determines is necessary in order to properly identify all salient facts regarding the matter at hand.
“You do have the constitutional right to remain silent during this process. Electing to exercise this right, however, will immediately result in your termination from employment.
“You do not have the right to an attorney during this process, unless the interviewer or his commander determines that you are officially a suspect in a crime. At such time, you will be granted a reasonable period of time to secure representation. Reasonableness will be defined, without appeal, by the interviewer or his commander.
“You do not have the right to union representation during this process, unless the interviewer or his commander determines that your responses or the fact pattern make it likely that you are susceptible to internal discipline. At such time, you will be granted a reasonable period of time to secure union representation. Reasonableness will be defined, without appeal, by the interviewer or his commander.
