It was unimportant whether or not Argon had merely helped Brendan slip the chemical noose and withstand the crippling period of his body’s regrouping, or whether the grizzled older cop had performed some sort of exorcism. Argon drew strength from somewhere, and he had offered Brendan the chance to do the same.
Brendan figured he could use all the help he could get.
He cleared his mind of these thoughts, realizing that showing up to a meeting with the IACP thinking about demons and possession was not necessarily the best tack. At the same time though, he felt he had nothing to hide. Let them see what they wanted to see – he had no control over that.
The bits of dread and guilt that were accumulating while he sat in the Camry dwindled away as he at last found this sense of personal freedom.
As he pulled away from his house and headed towards the Department, he was absently aware that he hadn’t even smoked a cigarette for three days.
* * *
Agents Roman Scalia and Cindy Barrister greeted Healy warmly. Taber was there for a time, offering a serious countenance, though his eyes glinted with hope. When Taber left, he requested that Healy come to his office after the session was over. The agents set a digital audio recorder down on the table, and the three of them began to talk.
“We were pleased to get your call this morning,” Barrister began. She was a pretty woman in her forties, wearing a dark suit. Her blond hair was pulled back in an immaculate bun. “It’s our policy for the officer involved in a use-of-force situation to have time to recover, but of course you don’t want too much time to pass. Things can become sanitized, or worse, any negative effects the incident may have on the officer can go unchecked.”
Brendan smiled and nodded once. “Understood. I felt ready, so I called.”
“Excellent,” Barrister said. “So. Let’s get going. How have you been?”
Brendan glanced at the set of crutches leaning on the table next to him. “All things considered,” he said.
The agent looked at the crutches, too. “And how are things with that? Any leads?”
“They’re looking into a late-model Ford, either black, dark red, or maybe even purple. Not much to go on, nothing found at the scene.” He looked at both agents. “When the truck hit me, it didn’t leave any part of itself behind.”
The agents looked grim.
Brendan shifted his weight and smiled politely.
They proceeded.
“Mr. Healy,” said Agent Barrister, “the IACP guidelines we work from were established to constructively support officers involved in shootings and other use-of-force incidents. Shootings and other use-of-force incidents can result in heightened physical and emotional reactions from the participants. So I want to ask you again. How have you been these past few days?”
Brendan sighed. Typically he was very uncomfortable with seeking approval. They wanted honesty and acted like they were on his side, but the two agents regarding him had the power to close the door on his law enforcement career. At the same time, he realized he had nothing to lose.
“I was given morphine following the incident with the pick-up truck. My injuries were extensive. The morphine – and the incident, too, I have to admit – triggered an emotional response I hadn’t really seen coming.”
“And what was that?”
“I started drinking again. I had eight years of sobriety.”
“And are you drinking now?”
“Not for the past 72 hours.”
“Are you a part of any support group?”
“I’ll be attending AA meetings this week. A friend of mine found me a local chapter. It’s in the basement of the Resurrection Life Church.”
“That’s good.”
Barrister had been doing all of the talking, and her face indicated genuine sympathy. She seemed to shake something off now, and reverted back to her more monotonous recital of IACP protocol.
“Mr. Healy, given the extreme nature of both of your recent incidents, we feel that an intervention is necessary.”
“Intervention?” Healy thought of Argon. Hadn’t the old Scottish cop already provided what the health care people called an intervention?
“Post-shooting interventions are conducted only by licensed mental health care professionals trained and experienced in working with law enforcement personnel. You may not feel it is necessary to participate – most cops don’t – but we think you will get a lot out of it. That’s why we’re requiring you to attend.”
Brendan shifted his weight again. They didn’t leave him much choice. A trill of electricity zipped up his spine when he thought about who the so-called mental health professional might be. Wouldn’t it be an ironic twist of fate if Miss Olivia Jane were to sit down across from him? The chances were slim, and even if it were to come to pass, she’d be sure to pull out of it and reassign Brendan to someone else.
This thought left a bitter taste in Brendan’s mouth and he realized the agents were looking at him curiously. He smoothed the scowl in his forehead with his fingertips. “Okay,” he said.
“Good. We can reconvene with this investigation after you’ve had a chance to have at least two appointments with your care provider.”
“Reconvene?”
They both looked at him blankly, some of their humanity displaced for the moment, as they each undoubtedly wondered if Healy was going to be a problem. Agent Roman Scalia spoke up.
“Yes, Mr. Healy. After a life-threatening incident – two, in your case – most officers are concerned if their physiological and emotional reactions are ‘normal.’” He hooked his fingers in the air to hang the quotations around the word. “A post-shooting intervention is not a head-shrinking, despite what you may think. It’s intended to be educative, to reassure you and reduce any anxiety.”
“I’m not anxious.”
“Mr. Healy, you just told us that . . .”
“I know what I just told you. I had a relapse. I’ve taken care of it. I called you to set this meeting so that I can move on with my life. Please. I’m in the middle of a murder investigation.”
“We understand,” said Barrister. “But you understand that we deal with these types of situations on a regular basis, working all over the state of New York. Helping officers with coping mechanisms, maintaining their sleep functions, accessing social support, and abstaining from alcohol abuse – these are our priorities.”
Healy was silent. They weren’t going to budge. And then Scalia added, “Given your past, we’re especially concerned here.”
Brendan felt a twinge of anger. “My past?”
Barrister shot Scalia a look, seeming to warn him about proceeding, but Scalia ignored her and cocked his head. “You don’t think that’s material?”
Healy stared back at Scalia.
“If you feel you’re ready to move on with your life, as you say, maybe you’d be willing to furnish us, in your own words, with the information about what happened to your wife and your daughter.”
Healy glanced at Barrister, who suddenly looked sorry to be in the room. Then he leveled his gaze at Scalia.
Brendan took a breath.
“I started drinking in my teens, like a lot of people. Only my drinking carried through into my twenties. It interfered with school, but I still graduated with my masters in neuroscience. I met my wife while in school. Shortly after graduating, we had our daughter. I went to work for the university in the research department, working towards my PhD. On the surface, we had a very successful life. But I was drinking every day. It was a real problem in our marriage. Of course, I didn’t know that at first. I found every other thing to blame. But, my wife knew it. And she loved me, and so endured it for as long as she could.
“One night, we went out to eat. We went to our favorite place, called Tramanto. It’s a lot like the Savoy, in Rome. You know that place? It’s a family place. But they have huge drinks. Not the kind I usually go for, but then again, I went for every kind. So I had two piña coladas and two margaritas. The
waitress gave me a look when I finished up with a stout beer. Not even much for me, five big drinks, I was fine. But my wife . . . she was trying so hard to get out from under it. She said it was like living with a time bomb. She tried to put her foot down. She snuck the car keys from my jacket when I went to the bathroom for my third or fourth trip. She got our little girl ready to go and said she was driving. I figured, let her. I thought, even on my worst drunks I’m a better driver. Those were my last thoughts about my life partner of seven years, wife for four of those years. But, I told her I wasn’t going to go. If she wanted to drive, then fine. I told her I would get a cab home later.”
Brendan looked at the two agents and realized that he had their complete attention. He felt the prickly heat of tears, but that was all. His heart beat a steady rhythm.
“I stayed at the bar and drank more. I flirted with the waitress who had given me the look – or, well, I tried to flirt with her. Meanwhile my wife and daughter got into our car. Less than a mile from the restaurant on the Saw Mill parkway they were slammed into by a truck. They both died in transit to the hospital. While I was sitting there watching the bar TV, drinking, my wife and baby girl died.”
CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE / MONDAY, 9:54 AM
Taber let Brendan into his office. He pulled out a chair and offered to help Brendan sit.
“I got it,” said Brendan. He put on a smile.
“You’re not looking too bad,” Taber said. He took his seat on the other side of his desk.
“Thanks, I think. And thank you for calling Argon.”
The Sheriff looked embarrassed and bypassed the situation. “Considering what you’ve been through, I’m surprised you’re even up and walking about. Which makes it very hard, what I’m about to ask you.”
Brendan raised his eyebrows. What fresh hell is this?
“Alexander Heilshorn wants to meet with you, that’s one.”
“He does?”
“Have you been watching the news?”
“Not really. I don’t have TV.”
“Good for you. So far, we’re lucky. Nothing has leaked about Rebecca Heilshorn’s involvement in . . . erotic entertainment.”
“That’s good.” Brendan paused. “Is it good?”
“It’s good. It’s . . . well, it is what it is. Sometimes the media can help. They got contacts for us at Cornell before we even knew she was a student there. But other times, well, there can be pressure. Undue pressure that doesn’t help anyone, and can scare off people who might otherwise come forward, assured of their anonymity.”
“I understand.”
The Sheriff paused and considered what he was going to say next with a grave air. Brendan looked around the office. There were two large sets of bookshelves behind Taber. There were file cabinets in the corner with a coffee maker on top. Two windows overlooked the street below. The room smelled of coffee and aftershave.
“This is pretty wild for your first case here,” Taber said. Brendan felt like the Sheriff was stalling.
“It is.”
“Normally, I would never ask this of you, to meet with Heilshorn. We don’t cow to civilians, even when they are related to the deceased. It never does any good. But Heilshorn, to my surprise, indicated very strongly that he wanted to speak to you.”
“I thought he didn’t want anything to do with me, considering.”
The Sheriff looked uncomfortable. “That was Delaney’s call.”
“Delaney made it up?”
“No, no. He had every reason, every reasonable reason to think that Heilshorn would have a chip on his shoulder about you, to say the least.”
Brendan suppressed the urge to comment on Delaney’s judgment. “What has Heilshorn said? Relating to the case?”
“Not much. We get the impression he’s been estranged from his daughter for some time. They only communicate through the mother. You know how that goes. And the family accountant handles affairs that affect them both, financially.”
“Is the accountant anyone interesting?”
Taber lifted his eyebrows and looked at Brendan, then dropped his eyes to the desk, he rubbed at some stain only he could see. “No, not at all. But Heilshorn is. I believe that he’s not telling us things. I’m not sure exactly what, but we need to know.”
“And you think he’ll speak to me.”
“He seems to want to.”
Both men took a breath and settled back. The air in the room seemed to become cloying, and now the coffee smelled a touch burnt.
“Okay,” said Brendan.
“It’s not that easy. You’ve been involved in two major incidents. IACP wants to run full diagnostics on you. I’m sure they’ve indicated that.”
“They’ve been forthcoming, yeah.”
Taber looked serious, and held his gaze. “I made the right call, putting you on a short leave.”
“I know you did, sir.”
“And it seemed appropriate, given my instincts about Heilshorn, that you be the one to look into the erotic entertainment.”
“Yes, it did.” Brendan realized that a moment ago, the Sheriff had indicated that Delaney had made the call about Heilshorn wanting Brendan booted from the case, but now the Sheriff was taking responsibility for that prejudgment. He knew Taber wasn’t the type to scapegoat, and wondered if the admission about Delaney had been a slip.
“And now I think – I hope – it’s the right call to have you fully reinstated on this case. That is, if you want it.”
Taber searched Brendan with his hazel eyes.
“I want it,” said Brendan.
“Okay. We’re going to see this thing through to the end. Together.”
“And Delaney?” Brendan couldn’t help but ask. He saw something like a twitch under the Sheriff’s eye.
“Delaney has turned up bupkiss, frankly. I’ve worked with Ambrose for over twenty years, and I trust him, but on this one . . . I’ve got to go with my gut.”
“And your gut is telling you to put the rookie, who has shot someone, been shot at, almost run over, is in need of psychological treatment, and is on crutches, back on the case.”
Taber looked across the desk at Brendan, gauging him. Brendan reminded himself that levity usually didn’t go down well, because of how matter-of-fact Sheriff Taber was. But the Sheriff surprised him.
“We’re short-handed,” he said, and offered a grim smile.
* * *
Alexander Heilshorn was not what Brendan had expected. For some reason, maybe it was pop culture stereotypes, Brendan had for all this time envisioned a tall man who was tow-headed and hawkish. Heilshorn was short, dark-haired, and if anything, looked a bit like Adolf Hitler, though his mustache was gray and made the full bridge above his lips.
He was spry and quick for his age – Brendan guessed that he was almost seventy. He looked in good shape. He stepped down from the front door of the house he apparently owned, just outside of Rome. He crossed the yard to greet Brendan, who stepped out of the passenger side of a Sheriff’s Department vehicle. Deputy Bostrom was at the wheel. He watched Heilshorn approach, looking like the cat that had swallowed the canary. Brendan waggled his eyebrows at the deputy and pulled his crutches out of the back seat.
The Sheriff had commissioned Bostrom to stay with Brendan until otherwise instructed. Brendan hadn’t argued, but Bostrom had looked less than pleased to play chaperone. Brendan closed the car door and turned his attention back to Heilshorn.
The man was smartly dressed, with the aesthetic of a rich guy doing a stint in the countryside. His slacks were crisp and flat, and a fresh flannel shirt sprung from an LL Bean catalogue showed beneath a grey wool sweater. He wore pristine hiking boots and stepped onto the driveway with his hand out in salutation.
Brendan took it. The man’s grip was dry and warm.
“Please, come inside,” said Heilshorn. “Can I help you?”
“No, thanks, I can make it okay,” said Brendan. He caught Heilshorn looking in through the windshield at Deputy Bostr
om.
“Is he coming in?”
“No, he’ll be fine there.” Brendan got his crutches hooked into his armpits and started towards the house before stopping a moment. “Is that alright with you?”
“That’s fine,” said Heilshorn.
Brendan nodded and let Heilshorn lead the way. He realized he could scarcely believe the man’s conviviality. Less than two weeks ago Brendan had gunned down this guy’s only son. And now here he was acting as if Healy was the gentleman suitor for his daughter instead of the lead investigator on her murder.
It couldn’t be real. He wondered what awaited him inside the house. In a moment of weakness, he felt glad that Bostrom was with him.
* * *
Inside, the genial host continued with the pleasantries, offering Brendan tea. Brendan accepted. It reminded him of Olivia, and he found himself wondering where she was, how she was doing. He realized he hadn’t left things very well with her, and felt a sting of guilt.
With the tea made, Heilshorn inquired as to where Brendan would be most comfortable.
“Hardback chairs actually seem to be better,” he said.
Heilshorn nodded as if he understood perfectly, and showed Brendan to a small table in the kitchen. He put down the tea, and the two men arranged themselves across from one another.
HABIT: a gripping detective thriller full of suspense Page 26
