by Mark Hazard
“If it’s Joller, then he’s put in months of work to get this far. If only we could ask Ferdinand who gave him my wife’s picture.”
“I can only ask him about events on the proffer sheet,” Jim said. “That’s all he has to answer, anyhow. Got a half-decent lawyer.”
Voices erupted in another part of the house. Laughter.
“I think your charges found their way into my kitchen.”
“Technically, sir, I’m Jameson’s charge.”
Jim gathered the materials into the manila envelope, slipped it between two of the binders and led the way back to the kitchen where Jameson stood holding a guitar, serenading Loretta with a Bruce Springsteen song. When he spotted Jim, he sang louder.
“I’m sorry, sir. Again.”
Jim shrugged. “I’m from New Jersey. If you barge into my house playing Springsteen, I’m powerless to stop you. Ever had a grilled PB and J? That’s Loretta’s go-to drunk food.”
Chu sat on the floor of the kitchen holding the Cummins’ cat, dancing it on the floor to the tune of Born to Run. Horror washed over his face when he saw Jim. He bolted to his feet. “Chief Detective Cummins, sir.” He saluted. “I’m so sorry. Oh, God. Sir. I thought this was Jameson’s house. I’m very drunk.” He pointed a stiff arm to the large minstrel. “Jameson made me.”
Jim chuckled and pulled a beer from his fridge. “I see you met Zelda.”
Chu turned to Loretta. “I’m so sorry, Zelda. I thought this was Jameson’s house.”
“Zelda’s the cat,” Jim said.
Chu picked up the cat again, and turned it to face him, legs dangling limply. “I’m so sorry, Zelda. I thought this was Jameson’s house. I’m very drunk.”
“That’s okay, Albert,” Chu said in his best cat voice. He motioned with her paw to boop him on the nose. “You’re a good dancer.”
“So are you, Zelda.”
“I’ll get these chuckleheads out of here,” Corus said.
“We’re empty nesters.” Jim waved his hands around the house, silently declaring its emptiness. “Youngest kid just left for college.”
“She left back in September,” Loretta said. “She’s in her second semester.”
“Feels like five minutes. Feels like two years. I can’t keep up.” Jim waved a hand. “It’s good to have some company.”
Jameson finished his song. “Beer me, Chief.”
“You’re cut off,” Jim said. “But keep going. You’re singing for a hot sandwich now.”
THREE
Corus dove into his research about Southeast Washington as if learning about a foreign country.
He’d driven through the area long ago. During Spring Break of his freshman year of high school, just before his parents had split for good, Corus’ family took a road trip to Yellowstone. The park definitely lived up to the hype, but the entire drive was stunning, like nothing his younger self had ever seen in all their travels. When his father’s Subaru station wagon had descended the eastern side of the Cascades, only an hour out of Seattle, everything about the scenery had changed. Lush, green and foggy surroundings transformed into the arid lands that lay in the rain shadow of the Cascades. Parts of Washington looked like California. The south central area looked like an alien planet. He wouldn’t see it’s like until setting foot in Afghanistan.
Most of the state was nothing like Seattle, incredibly diverse in its topography, climate and economy. As they entered the southeast corner of Washington, there was yet another shift to the rolling, grassy hills of the Palouse. His father had piped up and declared it, “the true breadbasket of America,” but hadn’t elaborated.
Corus passed the morning of his day off at the Covington Library, learning everything he could about the area. It was a semi-arid region with rich soils due to the area’s geological past. Farmers favored crops that handled drier conditions well, winter wheat being a prime example, but of course onions, too. The Snake River and Columbia River provided supplemental water for irrigation.
In law enforcement circles, “Walla Walla” referred to the State Penitentiary, but for the rest of the country, if Walla Walla was known for anything, it was Walla Walla sweet onions. That or the famous Whitman Massacre, an unfortunate historical event involving a settled missionary family and the Camas Indians who lived in the area at the time of contact.
The Blue Mountains broke up the rich farmland, stretching south from Washington into Oregon. Distinct from the Rocky Mountains, they lacked the same size and drama, but were beautiful in pictures and held an abundance of fish and game.
Most of the co-op’s farms were in the counties of Walla Walla, Columbia, Garfield and Asotin on the Washington side, Morrow, Umatilla, Union and Wallowa on the Oregon side. He got a feel for the major towns: Walla Walla, Pendleton, Umatilla, La Grande. Though, it was difficult to learn much more from so far away.
He got a call from Jameson.
“Rook. Gonna need you to pick me up. Five thirty.” His voice was gravelly, lacking any hint of exuberance from the night before.
“It’s my day off.”
“Don’t be late. Five thirty.”
Jameson hung up.
Corus made a face as he slipped his phone back in his pocket.
He’d been happy at first to have Sergeant Danny Jameson as his training deputy. He seemed like a role model not only for success as a cop but also at building strong relationships with coworkers and bosses. But so far, the man acted disinterested and unenthused by police work, primarily focused on the deteriorating state of his marriage. He could also be a bit of a bull in a china shop. Corus was beginning to wonder how the man had so many friends.
Back at home, Corus had a late lunch with Karen, then went to check on Chu. He found him in his apartment, sitting on his couch like an old man with a blanket over his lap. Chu sipped from a sports drink and had a sleeve of crackers on the couch arm beside him.
Corus closed the front door and sat on the other end of the couch.
“You’re alive,” he said.
“Did I puke last night?”
“You gave a Ford Focus a new paint job.”
“Someone’s car?” Chu turned in his seat, folding one leg underneath him. “Oh, God. Did you get the license plate? I need to pay for cleaning and write a letter of apology.”
Corus waved a hand. “They were parked in front of Henry T’s. You have to live with your decisions.”
After Chu calmed down, they watched a Mandy Moore film, during which Chu complained about not having a girlfriend in general and not having Mandy Moore as his girlfriend in particular.
“I think we’d make adorable babies,” he said.
“Mandy Chu has a nice ring to it.”
“She’s a performer. She’ll need to keep her stage name. But maybe she’d consider hyphenating on our legal documents.”
“Mandy Moore-Chu?”
“You’re right. That sounds terrible. I’ll become Albert Chu-Moore, then.”
Corus laughed, but Chu didn’t seem to get it.
“Eh, hyphenated surnames can be cumbersome,” Chu said.
Corus pursed his mouth, reining in his enthusiastic agreement. “I think you may have a point.”
Chu sighed and ate a cracker, watching Mandy kiss her love interest.
“I can’t help you with a girlfriend, but I have a different idea. Come on. Up, up.”
Chu complained that he wasn’t dressed to go out but didn’t take much cajoling to throw a Member’s Only jacket over his University of Washington sweats and slip into some sandals.
Fifteen minutes later, they walked into King County Animal Control and toured the cages.
“Why would you bring me to a prison for animals?” Chu whined.
“It’s a shelter.”
“It’s death row.”
“I’m trying to help. Just pick one.”
“Just pick one?” If Chu’s voice had raised in pitch any higher, the dogs would’ve been the only ones who understood him. “By picking o
ne, I’m basically sentencing all the others to death.” He turned to the attendant. “I’ll take all of them. All the cats and all the dogs.”
“It costs about two hundred dollars each,” she said in a deadpan. “Adoption fee, shots, neutering.”
Chu opened his mouth and then closed it.
“Let’s start with one,” Corus said. “Look at this guy. He looks… sleepy.”
Chu walked closer, and his frown went from sour to loving. “Aww. Look at him. I will call him Sir Sleepington III, Duke of Slumbershire.”
Corus patted him on the shoulder. “My treat. Now, don’t make eye contact with any of the other animals or we will never get out of here.”
After dropping Chu back home and helping him set up a litter box and scratching post for Sir Sleepington III, Corus went on his way, feeling buoyed by his good deed. At five thirty, he was outside Jameson’s house in Kent. Still waiting at five forty, he wished he could go back to Chu’s place and watch a bad movie.
When he and Chu weren’t in uniform, it didn’t feel like they were deputies. Work came up in conversation, of course, but Chu mainly filled their time with inane musings, reality TV and feel-good films. Corus would never go for any of it on his own, thus it provided a break from his normal headspace, even if said headspace was losing brain cells with each passing episode of Laguna Beach. He hadn’t craved that separation from work in the Army, but maybe it just hadn’t been possible. If he’d stayed in, he might’ve ended up a captain or major with a desk job, itching to head home at the end of the day like a normal nine-to-fiver.
He was still glad he’d avoided finding out, but only eight shifts in as a deputy, he felt a dissatisfaction growing inside him. He couldn’t name the feeling, but noticed it mounted to acute levels as Jameson finally exited his house wearing jeans and an Izod golf shirt in the middle of an ongoing fight with his wife. He backed down the steps, yelling through the front door. His wife appeared in the doorway, arms crossed. Corus didn’t make out exactly what she said, but “shove it up your ass, Danny,” was his closest guess.
Jameson stalked across his lawn leaving a trail in the long, wet grass. When he got in, he smelled strongly of cologne, his hair still wet from the shower. No booze stink.
“Don’t ever get married, Rook.”
“I am married, Sarge.”
Jameson fumed for a moment in silence. “Head on down this road and turn right. Drive under the highway and turn left after the Jiffy Lube.”
Corus pulled away. “Something wrong with your car?”
“What?” Jameson gave him a wincing look. “No.”
“Why did you need a ride?”
He jutted his wide chin and waved a hand. “Figured you should know about this.”
“I told you I’m not in AA.”
“It’s not AA.” He gave Corus another hurt look. “What are you saying, Rook?”
“I’m not looking to join a church.”
“It ain’t church. Just drive.”
After the turn past the Jiffy Lube, Jameson directed him into an industrial park and to a drab two-story office building with corrugated metal siding. They went in through a side door and down a set of steps into a basement with non-egress windows near the ceiling. Most of the concrete floor was taken up with stacks of trestle tables, metal chairs, cleaning supplies and an aging arcade game covered with a thick layer of dust.
A clearing in the floor provided space for a ring of chairs under a single, uncovered, low-wattage bulb. Its yellowish glow spread over a dozen or so heads, many of which had buzz cuts.
“I thought you said this wasn’t AA,” Corus murmured as they walked up.
“Just sit, Rook.”
They took two open seats side-by-side, completing the circle. Corus recognized a couple of the faces, deputies from the third precinct. The rest were new to him.
“I suppose we can get started,” a woman said. She did not have the look of law enforcement about her. Her dress was long with a pattern that wouldn’t have looked out of place on upholstered furniture thirty years before. Her auburn hair was streaked with silver and rolled over her shoulders and her generous bosom, bracketing the crystal pendant dangling from a macramé necklace. “Let us start with the blessing. Lordess Gaia…”
She gave the circle a stern look, waiting.
“Lordess Gaia…” came the grudging responses.
“Bring your vibration to this circle. We join in mutual support, brothers and sisters. Bless us who walk on your earth.”
After repeating it all, some said, “Amen.” One man crossed himself, which struck Corus as odd. Perhaps the Catholic Church had loosened up its stance on paganism. Perhaps the guy was just winging it religion-wise.
“I see some new faces, tonight,” she said. “That’s good. As always, we affirm that this is a safe place, an anonymous place and a loving place. Who would like to begin?”
Jameson reached out. The woman tossed him some kind of stuffed animal, which he held between his knees.
“Go ahead.”
“Yesterday, I arrested a guy.” Jameson spoke slower than usual. “At first glance, it was a standard disgruntled employee situation, but scratch the surface, and it’s clear to me at least, this guy was one of us. Reliving the worst moment of his life, unable to convince himself that he’s a good guy with a good life and people who love him.”
“I heard about that,” a woman said. “Threw his boss out a window.”
“Things with my wife have been rough,” Jameson said. “My kids aren’t talking to me. At work, I feel like I’m half outside my body. The nightmares have been back.” He held up a hand. “Now, I know that teenagers are sullen. Every job gets boring from time to time. And I’m not the perfect husband, regardless. But with it all going bad at the same time… Well, that’s why I’m back.”
“Which nightmares?” an African-American man across the circle asked. He had a shaved head and a thick neck. “These the ones about the fires or the train hitting you?”
“Little of both. I didn’t come here to talk. Most of you know my story. I don’t have the answers. I’m hoping you’re all doing well, and I can get some of that to rub off. Thanks.”
Jameson passed the stuffed animal over to Corus. “Tell em’ your shit, Rook.”
Corus stared at the well-worn plush toy. At first, he thought it might be a horse with its four legs, but its face looked more like a camel.
“I’m sorry. Could someone get me up to speed?” he said delicately. “Why am I in a basement, in a circle, holding what appears to be a plush llama?”
“This is a PTSD support group,” the same man across the circle said. “A very unofficial group. I’m Michael. You’re safe here and welcome.”
“Thanks Michael…” Corus was still confused.
“That’s the trauma llama,” Jameson said. “When you’re holding the trauma llama, you can talk about your trauma. Don’t hold back, Rook. It’s good to get it out.”
Corus leaned in, whispering, “Why did you bring me here?”
“Because I’m you in fifteen years,” Jameson whispered back. “Get a handle on your shit now.” Jameson smiled at the group. “Got some fresh meat here, folks. But we’ll get him warmed up. You’ll see.”
“I’m Sister Kuthra,” the woman said. “What should we call you?”
“Corus, ma’am.”
“Not your real name,” Jameson spat. “He’s not really Michael. And I’m not really Chuck. Pick a name.”
“Fine. Bob. Call me Bob. I don’t have PTSD. I don’t think. But…” He looked around at their faces. Surely they were all fellow cops, young and old, men and women, but now he saw something more familiar to him: soldiers, marines, sailors, airmen. He felt, at once, more at home. “I have complicated feelings about war and the things I experienced, feelings I can’t contend with the same way I do with rational thoughts. And I know a lot of people are struggling far worse. If I can lend support, I want to however I can.”
He offered
the trauma llama out to any takers.
“What do you mean you don’t have PTSD?” Jameson demanded. “Thought you did five tours. Special forces or something.”
“Two tours. I wasn’t in Special Forces. I served for a time under the Special Operations Command.”
“Did you see combat?” The stocky man who spoke cleared his throat. “Sorry, I’m James. Fourth Infantry. Nine months in Iraq.”
“Afghanistan. And yes. Plenty.”
“Combat? You kidding?” Jameson jerked his thumb at Corus like Farmer Jones showing off his prized pig. “This guy’s job was to stir the honey pot and wait for the bees. He practically lived off base, operating on his own for weeks. Tell them about the T-55 tank you hijacked.” Jameson elbowed Corus, then carried on without missing a beat. “Guy runs across an airfield under fire and jumps onto a Russian tank. Frags these mothers, drags them out, then turns the turret thingy and starts lobbing shells at the airport these Al Qaida guys are hiding in.”
Corus gave him the most quizzical look he could muster.
“I peeked in Cummins files,” he admitted, then barked a laugh. “Actually told him I wouldn’t partner you. Don’t need to get hurt trying to do hero shit. But you’re all right.” Jameson patted his shoulder and turned to the group. “He’s all right, everyone. Really.”
Sister Kuthra spoke up. “It’s not really anyone’s place to tell Bob’s story for him. I’m sorry, Bob, that’s not usually how we do things here.”
“Jesus Christ, Chuck.” Michael crossed his arms.
“I’m just saying,” Jameson said. “There’s no way he doesn’t have PTSD. I wasn’t even in combat, and my deployment messed me up. Handle your shit now, Rook, or you’ll end up like me. Or worse, you’ll be tossing people out windows.”
“Chuck!” Sister Kuthra said. “This is not how we do things. I think you’re projecting some of your own angst.” She clutched her crystal. “Did you bring your talisman?”
Jameson pouted like the sullen teenagers he’d referenced earlier. “Yeah…”
“Take it out.”
