by Kate Gable
12
I see that guy when I close my eyes.
The images stay with me for a while; his body folding in half like a pair of pants at the mall, his eyes remaining open.
Luke says something to me. He touches me and yet, I can't feel him. I turn to him slowly and he mouths something.
It takes me a second to figure out what he's asking.
"Are you okay? Are you okay?"
I nod, but he doesn't take that for an answer until I say the word. We make our way over to the other officers.
Furrowed brows, clenched jaws, stern looks.
They all look at us and each other, but none of us actually focus. I slowly move my eyes from one face to another, registering, acknowledging that we are here.
Someone begins to nod and that makes it a little bit better.
An ambulance arrives.
People start to talk in louder than normal tones, but I have a hard time understanding what they're saying. The words seem to come in one ear and out the other.
My stomach feels like it's in knots, like I may throw up at any moment.
I swallow hard, inhaling a gasp of air, and then exhale very slowly, trying to calm down my beating heart.
More people show up and procedures start to take place. We have all been involved as witnesses and perpetrators.
This is a crime scene now and photos are being taken. Statements are going to be ordered next.
We're going to be put into different little rooms and questioned about what we have seen and what we haven't seen.
I know how it works.
I've never been here before, but it works pretty much the same way. Usually, the intimidating interrogation rooms are avoided and this kind of procedure takes place in the upstairs offices with big windows and broad tables.
I have to go back to the precinct. There is paperwork to fill out and statements to make, but that's the last thing I want to do.
I need to call my mom and I want to help her find Violet. Somehow thinking back to Violet puts me at ease.
Back at the precinct, there’s a line of separation between the uniformed officers and the plain clothes detectives. No one talks about it, but after a few drinks, when you become a detective, there's an alienating feeling that pops up, separating you from your coworkers.
When I was a deputy, I remember the little bit of jealousy that I felt toward detectives. Part of that had to do with the normal clothes and part of that had to do with the confidence and the general air of self-assuredness that came with the title.
What I didn't know before I became a detective was all of the hours that you spend doing the work that is not particularly glamorous.
The hours spent sitting in bushes, in rain or snow.
The hours sitting in cars, eating junk food, waiting for suspects to do something to help you build your case.
Everyone involved in this shooting is wearing a uniform, except for me and Luke. We've all been sequestered in a room together and told not to talk. There are stale doughnuts and old coffee in the corner. We eat and drink even though I doubt that any of us are hungry.
The interviews proceed pretty swiftly, but hours pass before the first one begins.
There's a total of seven officers. Luke and I make nine.
When the deputies go to their meetings with Internal Affairs, the number of people slowly dwindles down until it's just me and Luke.
To try to pass the time and not talk about the case, Luke asks me about Violet. I tell him what I have found out in much more detail than I did before. He listens carefully, nodding.
A few times, he rubs the back of his head in that swift motion that shows that he's more tired than bored.
"Listen, we don't have to talk about this,” I offer.
"Oh, yeah? Like what else can we talk about?"
"I don't know."
I rack my brain for something, for another possible topic of conversation, but nothing appears.
“This is the problem with socializing with people who work in law enforcement.”
Luke laughs and questions, "What do you mean?"
"Well, you know how it is. Your work is all you have to talk about."
"No, there must be other things."
"Hobbies? I’m not like you, I don’t really have any." I look at him and smile.
Our eyes meet and his glisten a little bit under the harsh fluorescent lights. He must be the only person, or at least one of a very few, who looks good under direct white light.
"Tell me about your dad," Luke says and it feels like I got punched in the stomach.
"What do you mean?" I ask, leaning on the back of the plastic chair and regretting that we haven't occupied the couch on the other side of the room.
Now, even though there are only two of us left here, it feels odd to suddenly get up and move.
"I don't know. You just never mentioned him before. I was wondering why."
I bite the inside of my cheek. I don't know whether sitting in this waiting room with a guy that I've had barely two dates with is the right time to talk about my father.
"Things have been complicated," I say. "I don't really like talking about it."
"Oh, okay," he says with a nod. "I understand."
I doubt that, I want to say, but I don't want to be rude.
"So, what's your plan for Violet? Did your mom put out the flyers?"
"No, not yet. I guess I should have told her to do them today. Uh, I don't know," I say.
Burying my fingers in my hair, I realize just how greasy it is and hate the fact that I haven't had the chance to spray it with dry shampoo.
"I'm going to text her to get those printed and start plastering them everywhere…” I let my words hang there.
I don't know how to finish the sentence. I don't know how to deal with all of the hundreds of thoughts milling around in my mind seemingly all at once.
"If you don't want to talk about Violet, it's fine. I don't want to pressure you."
"No, it's not that. It's just... It's everything. It's just too much, this shooting, the Reynard girl, Violet. Doesn't it feel like this job is just too much sometimes?"
"Yeah, it does.” Luke nods.
Leaning on his knees, he props his arms up to support his head and looks up.
His hair falls slightly in his face. He looks so beautiful and handsome with those high cheekbones and the strong jawline.
Yet, he also looks vulnerable and real all at the same time.
"I like you," he says.
Just like that.
No pretense.
No qualifiers.
"I like you, too," I say, tilting my head just a little bit, staring deep into his eyes.
I bite my lower lip.
I move a little bit closer to him and then he kisses me, pressing his lips tightly against mine. They're soft and yet strong. He kisses me and then pulls me closer to him.
My hands make their way around his neck and into his hair. This is the first thing, the first good thing that I’ve felt in a long time.
Just before we separate, the door to the room swings open and a uniformed officer whose name I don't know tells me to follow him.
13
Nobody wants to be assigned to the Internal Affairs Division, IAD. In fact, it's usually referred to as the kiss of death.
Internal Affairs investigate officers for anything that's considered to be acts of treason. Everyone who has ever watched any television show knows that there is a silent and unspoken code among cops that creates the solid bond between these men and women in blue.
Cops are ganged and their membership is incredibly loyal. Police officers will fight, lie, and cheat for one another.
If you say something against one of them, they can be pretty vindictive and vengeful. I know this as I walk over to the room where they're going to conduct my interview.
Usually, Internal Affairs doesn't handle this kind of situation. This is just an officer-involved shooting but given what has bee
n going on recently around the country, an IAD will be at this interrogation.
We walk down a long hallway and go into a big, wide room with enormous windows looking out onto the city below.
Captain Medvil sits at one end of the table and introduces two IAD officers to me whom I've only seen briefly walking down the halls.
There are two other sergeants in the room as well. They are all here to judge, analyze, and interpret my version of events. No one ever wants to be involved in IAD investigations. In order to lessen the animosity toward these investigators, the Chief of Police tends to rotate detectives through the IAD department.
Everybody is cordial and polite. The friendliness that I have had with Captain Medvil before is gone.
The row of men, and I do mean men, sit across from me with folders in front of them, the contents of which are a mystery to me.
"Tell us what happened,” Captain Medvil says.
I start at the beginning.
I tell them every detail that I can remember.
I pause on a few and reiterate.
"He stood up,” I say. “He had the gun. He shot at the other officers. He never responded to any of my attempts to get him to step down.”
Their faces are blank.
They reveal nothing, but I know what happened. Unlike many other officer-involved shootings, this case is pretty black and white.
Everyone knows that he had a gun. A few people saw it get loaded and he didn't respond to anyone trying to get him to step down.
This is a classic textbook case of suicide by cop, where the suspect shoots at the officers, knowing that he's going to get killed.
After they listen to my whole story, it's time for me to ask a question.
"Do you think you'll be able to find any businesses that have a recording of what happened? There must have been some cameras pointed in this direction or maybe even some news people from the helicopters above."
“Some of the videos have been retrieved already," Captain Medvil says. "They seem to align to what you said."
"Good, good. This was a very unfortunate incident," I say. "I'm just sorry that it happened at all. It shouldn't have."
The officer on the other side of Captain Medvil who read me my Miranda Rights, informed me of my right to department grievance procedures, and my right to have an attorney present, writes down something frivolously in his notebook.
I wonder what it could be and whether or not it affects this case at all. Then, when it's almost time for me to go, he looks up, narrowing his eyes.
He has a standard issue haircut and the broad stance used to exhibit authority and impose it on others.
He's the kind of cop that I don't like because I can't tell if he actually thinks that he knows everything that he needs to know or if he is just putting on a show.
"I hate to say this," I add, almost as an afterthought, "but I kind of got the sense that that guy wanted to die. I mean, I know that he’d just robbed a bank, but sometimes you see it on their faces. It's like one wrong thing happened after another, and another and he just couldn't bear it. He just couldn't deal with the possibility of going to jail. I don't know anything about him or his record and I don't know if he's been to prison before, but sometimes it's the people who haven't been there who are the most scared."
"Thank you for your time, Detective Carr," Captain Medvil says. "We will be in touch."
"Oh, one more thing." The guy next to him stands up just as I'm about to leave.
I turn around to face them and see the way that he leans over the oak table and looks up from his notes.
"You said that you emptied your clip, right?" There's a cockiness to the voice like he's challenging me with something that he knows isn't true.
"Um, I don't know about emptying my clip, but I shot him just like everyone else did."
"No, you didn't," he says.
I glance down at his name tag, Officer Delinsky. Now, I'm sure that I will remember his name.
"I don't know what you're talking about."
"Well, Detective Carr, with all due respect."
I clench my jaw. "With all due respect" is one of those lines that people use whenever they are just about to disrespect you.
I wait for him to continue.
"You surrendered your weapon and we had the forensics team go through it. No bullets were used. Apparently, you never even discharged it."
"What are you talking about?" I ask, unfolding my hands and staring at him in disbelief. "I was there. I shot him along with everyone else."
"No, you didn't," Captain Medvil says, shaking his head. "You're just a witness. You identified yourself and told him to stand down. Everyone confirmed that. But you, in fact, did not shoot him."
The words hit me like a gust of wind. They collide with me and then go through me.
I don't understand what they are saying to me. How could I have not shot him?
I was so certain that I had my gun in my hand. I had it extended in front of me.
I remember pointing it at him and then that's when the shooting started, but, of course, the explosion of gunfire sounds like firecrackers and I guess none of them came from me.
"It's fine, Detective Carr. You did nothing wrong," Captain Medvil says. "We just thought that you should know that you actually did not shoot him."
I nod and walk out of the meeting hall with my head hanging low.
I feel the slope of my shoulders and straighten them out just before the door closes behind me.
I make my way down the hallway and all the way downstairs to the locker room. That's finally when I collapse.
I sit on the toilet and I let all of the stress and the emotion of the day flow out of me. I hate the tears.
I hate the fact that men can just channel all of that stress and frustration into anger, but I never can.
I don't cry often, but today, it's just too much. I'm overwhelmed and out of control, but a few strong gasps and purposeful breathing exercises finally start to relax me.
I dry my tears with toilet paper, put in my AirPods, and turn on my favorite meditation app.
Five minutes of the soothing voice and the calming presence focuses my thinking and puts me back in the driver’s seat of my life. When I walk back out to wash my hands, I feel like a new woman.
14
I change into a pair of comfortable jeans and a loose fitting blouse, professional, but not so dressed up like the pencil skirt that I had on before.
It's getting late now, but I still have work to do. I head to my desk and open the computer. I check my phone, and then text my mom with a template to create the missing poster for Violet.
It contains all the basic information: white female,110 pounds, 5’4”, 13 years old, brown eyes, brown hair, last seen…
I have seen plenty of these missing posters in my career, but I've never thought that my sister would be on one of them.
There are big, red letters with the word MISSING at the top. I need my mom to attach three recent photographs.
Just as I'm about to text her this information, I just do it myself. I know my sister's social media and I know which pictures will look the most like her and be most appropriate for the poster.
I go to Instagram, her preferred platform, and see that she hasn't posted any stories since a day ago. Usually, she doesn't miss one and I like getting these updates.
Even though we don't talk on the phone very often, it's nice to see her and her life in this lens. I never had that myself growing up and I wonder what kind of stuff I would have posted and what kind of persona I would have been online as a teenager because that's what we are after all.
We are projections of ourselves.
We show the world what we want to be like and even those people who show themselves with all their flaws and all are carefully curating their imperfect lives.
Looking through my sister's Instagram with a more investigative eye rather than a big sister eye like I did before, I notice a few things. There are
very few pictures of her and her friends.
Most images are selfies or pictures of sunsets, snow, and animals. Man, she loves animals.
I do, too. I remember how much I used to beg my mom to get me a cat or a dog, but she never relented. It's the same way with my sister.
For some reason, my mom has always been very anti-pets and I wish that I could give my sister a pet or even have one for myself, but I work too many hours and it would be unfair.
I click on a few photos on which some of her friends are tagged and I look at their innocent faces. I wonder what secrets they are holding deep within their souls.
Thirteen year olds always have secrets.
I look up Kaylee's Instagram and unlike Violet's, hers is dominated by filters, selfies, cars, and pretty much anything else. In half of the pictures, she doesn't even look like the real girl. I guess that's the point.
I type in Neil Goss’s name and look through a string of various guys before spotting him at the very bottom.
He has 5,000 friends, a high number for a middle school kid who isn't Instagram famous.
I notice that most of the pictures were taken either by a friend or by a tripod, a little bit further away than a selfie arm can reach. They're usually torso or full-body shots of him playing hockey, him playing basketball, him playing video games.
He's confident about his looks because, well, he looks like he's at least three years older and has the attitude of a cool thirty-year-old. This is the kind of kid who would probably do well in Hollywood. I can definitely see him on daytime television.
Neil's Instagram doesn't reveal anything off the bat, but I write down the names of a few people that he has tagged and search their Instagrams as well. I'm well aware of the fact that there's now Snapchat, TikTok, and other platforms that I have to check.
I don't exactly know what I'm looking for, but I have a feeling that this would be the place to find it. I still have the hope that maybe Violet is with someone from school.
Why would she be with someone from school and not tell my mom about it?
Did something happen between the two of them or maybe I'm off track altogether?
Maybe someone grabbed her and took her somewhere and this person is a complete stranger.
