I chuckled while sipping my water. “Well, you sure didn’t get my good looks. Glad you got something useful from me.”
He persisted. “So why have you been gettin’ up at night? What’s up with these dreams Mom told me about, and you coming home plastered? What’s up with that? Give it up, Pop. What’s going on with you? Are you and Mom getting a divorce?”
I tried to sweep it all under the rug. “I’ll be fine. We’re fine. Mom’s just being Mom. Don’t worry about me. Mom and I are doing OK.”
He just kept after me. “I’ve been hearing you walking around here at night a lot lately, and Mom told me she’s worried about you. With all that yelling the other night, she’s really pissed at you about something! I had to laugh when you came home drunk on your ass, though. You barfed yourself.”
I decided a stern approach might work.
“Look, Jimmy, drop it. My head has been messed up lately, but I promise I’ll take care of it. Don’t lose sleep over it anymore, all right? I promise no more getting drunk. Now, go back to bed, and just leave me alone.”
With a serious look on his face, my son said, “All right, but I’m holdin’ you to that, Dad. If you don’t fix it, I’m leaving. I’ll just run away. Yeah, I’ll join the circus, where everything is normal. You got it, Pop?”
I chuckled out loud, hoping he was kidding. “Circus? Oh really, the circus? You could always marry the bearded lady. At least she could grow a decent moustache.”
He sarcastically muttered, “Thanks,” and shuffled off to bed. I turned off the lights and sat in the dark for a while.
Later that morning, I broke down and made a call to Human Resources (HR) and asked for a referral to the SAVE program. Santa Barbara County did a fair job of supporting its employees, and the Save A Valuable Employee program was offered, free of charge, for those who needed help with personal problems. Julie had made it crystal clear that I was one of those employees. My little chat with Jimmy convinced me she was right. It had taken a while, but I was thrashed. I was ready.
HR set me up for a meeting with our psychologist, Dr. Carl Thompson. As long as my problem hadn’t yet affected my job performance, no one else would know about it, and no reference to it would be recorded in my personnel file. Carl always seemed like a nice-enough guy, but I wasn’t looking forward to our little chat. We cops don’t like shrinks—probably because we have such big egos. Plus, we’re afraid of what they might stir up in our noggins. We can deal with everyone else’s problems but not our own.
Carl Thompson was a tall, thin man of about sixty years, with graying hair and a neatly trimmed beard—a very distinguished fellow. His spectacles held behind them what was best described as “kind” eyes. He was exactly the type of guy who could get you to spill your guts by just sitting there smiling. I guess that was why he was so good at what he did. I had visited him twice before: once before I got hired and once after an incident between my shotgun and a black dude robbing a 7-Eleven.
Dr. Thompson greeted me at his office door. “Kevin, gosh, it’s been a long time. Come in. I don’t think we’ve talked since that use-of-force incident a few years ago, have we?”
“No, Doc, and frankly I figure that’s a good thing. Nothing against you, but I’d rather not be here chatting with you again. I hope you understand.”
“I do understand, Detective, but you asked for this session, didn’t you? This isn’t a mandatory counseling appointment, is it? If it is, I haven’t received anything regarding the reason behind it.”
“Oh no, Doc. This was all my wife’s idea. I must tell you, though, that I need to get a handle on my sleep. I think I’ve gotten about ten hours of sleep in the last three days. I’m beat, so whatever I need to do to take care of this problem, I’m game. It’s about the dreams I have been having.”
“You’ve got my attention, Kevin. Tell me what’s been on your mind.”
I laid it out for him. It felt good to finally talk about it.
“Almost ten years ago, one summer while working patrol in the mountains near Santa Ynez, I got a call to go to Lake Cachuma. They said a seven-year-old boy was missing there. Two families from another county had come up to camp there on that busy weekend. Between the two groups, there were seven kids among them. It was sunny and warm that day, and the Lake Cachuma County Park was jam-packed with campers and fishermen.
“Both families had set up their campsites on the edge of the lake, and everything was great until that Sunday afternoon. The parents were partying with some other campers in their spot—just sitting around, having a few beers. The group’s seven children, ranging from ages thirteen to seven, had been playing between their camp and the water’s edge, which was about fifty yards from where they sat boozing it up.
“A fisherman had pulled a rowboat onto the shore near them, and the kids had been playing pirates all around it. They were just playing like kids do, Doc. They were jumpin’ in and out of the boat, brandishing tree branches like swords. I even saw paper pirate hats floating near the shoreline. I had a bad feeling right off.
“The adults told me that they would occasionally glance toward the kids, and they figured the older ones would keep an eye on the younger ones. The parents said they got ‘distracted.’ Yeah, distracted by the booze and fucking around, all right. They needed to be watching those kids.
“Anyway, when I arrived, I was tearfully met by the mother and father of the missing boy, Sean. I could smell alcohol on their breath. The other kids had all returned to the campsite after about an hour down by the lake, and when the adults finally did a head count, Sean was missing. They did a frantic check of the shoreline and all the nearby campsites, but Sean was nowhere around. They said they thought he might have been kidnapped—grabbed by some pervert. The ranger staff had the lake on lockdown, checking every campsite and every car coming out. That’s when we got called. After I got there and did some checking, I asked for more resources to begin a more extensive search. But after being briefed on how the kids had been playing near the water, I knew in my gut what had happened. I could see it in the parents’ eyes that they had the same feeling, too.
“I had recruited some sober adult campers from the area and asked them to slowly walk the shoreline for me. I met with them outside earshot of the parents and told them there was a fair chance the boy was in the water. I asked for their discretion if they saw something.
“It took only twenty minutes, Doc. As I stood consoling Sean’s father in the campsite, I saw an older man a distance away, down by the water, waving slowly to get my attention. I made an excuse and walked the long way around from another campsite down to the shore where he was. The older man, wearing a blue baseball cap with ‘Vietnam Vet’ embroidered on the front, whispered, ‘He’s over there in the water.’ Without drawing attention, he turned his back to the crowd around the parents and discreetly pointed a shaky finger out twenty feet from the water’s edge. There, down about ten feet, I could barely see the top of the boy’s head and his shoulders. I remember he had a white T-shirt on; it’s what drew my attention. He had been down there for at least an hour and a half by then, and I knew he was gone. I knew a lot about how the body reacts to drowning, and the water was just too warm to allow for a miracle. He had probably died in less than eight minutes.
“I knew the drill. If I called for the sheriff’s dive team to respond and recover the boy’s body, it would take over an hour just to get them there. That wouldn’t work. The parents would agonize, knowing Sean was down there. So would I. It wasn’t right for the parents to wait, and it wasn’t respectful of the boy. I knew what I had to do.
“I spoke to the old fellow who’d found the body in the first place, and I told him I needed to trust him to guard my gear. He said, ‘You can count on me, son.’ I looked into his eyes, and I knew I could. So I quietly and quickly unloaded my gun and took off my boots and my gun belt. He held my gear as I slipped into the water, badge, uniform, and all. The water in Cachuma Lake drops off sharply from the shorelin
e in that area, and the boy floated below at a drop-off of around twenty feet of water. I dove down and brought him up.
“Doctor, I can’t forget how white he looked, how limp he felt in my arms, and how his little eyes were wide open. He was looking right at me, Sam. I can’t get that picture out of my head. I cradled that boy in my arms and swam to shore. It seemed like a mile away.
“By the time I walked up from the water, his father and mother had run down to meet me at the shore. God forgive me, but I was pissed at them! How could parents allow their kid, who they damn well knew couldn’t swim, jump in and out of a boat floating in the water? In my mind at the time, it was child neglect, and my anger spread like a fire burning inside me. It clouded my judgment, Doc.
“The father begged me to hand the boy to him. I sternly said, ‘No, you can hold him while I have him.’ He clutched on to the child, his child, held against my chest, and shook, weeping uncontrollably. I could feel his fingers squeezing the dead boy in my arms. I never shed a tear. Doctor, I’ve always regretted doing that—acting that way to that poor man, those parents. How could I have kept that boy from his father? No one could have kept my son from me. How could I have been such an asshole?”
As I finished my story, I felt a deep sense of release, and the tears streamed out of me. I wished I could have cried on the day I held Sean in my arms.
Carl Thompson pulled his chair closer to mine after giving me time to grieve—and wipe my eyes and blow the snot rolling out of my nose.
“Kevin, that’s a lot to hold up inside you. Tell me about these dreams you’re having.”
After a pause to grab a wad of Kleenex, I answered, “The boy was seven, and so was Jimmy, my youngest son, at the time. My son is blond like Sean was. Every time I would think about that towheaded boy I pulled from the water, I thought of my own son. The dreams started about a week after I went into the lake. They are always about the same. I’m swimming under very dark water. Sometimes I’m scuba diving, but I am always underwater. I can’t see very far, just a few inches. I suddenly feel claustrophobic, like everything is collapsing inwardly on me. I’m scared, and I find it hard to catch my breath. Suddenly, before my face, about ten inches away, Sean is staring at me. He’s pale-white, and his eyes are wide open, like he’s terrified. His blond hair is floating around his face. Sometimes, he reaches out and grabs me. Sometimes, it’s Jimmy’s face I see. It doesn’t matter how it happens; when I see him, I wake up shaking or screaming. It’s terrifying, and I just can’t seem to shake off this nightmare. I don’t want to keep waking Julie up, and it seems to come more frequently the busier I get at work. I’ve got a big case going on right now, and I am beat all the time.”
Dr. Thompson leaned back in his chair. “You’ve been working on that high-profile murder case, haven’t you? I saw you on the news a couple weeks ago. Has your fatigue adversely affected your work product? Can you keep your thoughts together?”
Looking down at my feet, I responded, “No, it hasn’t affected me a lot, not that I’ve noticed. I’m just dead-tired all the time.”
“Have you felt angry or acted out at work?”
“I haven’t noticed that. I’m only mad at myself for waking Julie up all the damn time. I can’t let this hurt my family. Last night, even my son woke up. And to be honest, I’ve been drinking more lately. That’s not like me.”
The good doctor then spent several minutes chitchatting with me about my drinking. He finished with, “You need to have a dry period, Kevin, but I don’t see you as having a drinking problem, per se, here. Alcohol is many times a coping mechanism that people use to mask the real issues.”
Thompson then said, “You’re having classic signs of PTSD, posttraumatic stress disorder. You know what that is, don’t you?”
I did know what he was talking about. A good friend of mine lost his job over his inability to function after he shot an armed-robbery suspect getting ready to take a hostage. Even though he acted properly, even heroically, he couldn’t handle that he had taken a life. He wasn’t able to draw his gun at work after the shooting, and they had to retire him. He was devastated and became a drunk. It was jeopardizing his and his fellow officers’ safety. I could not, would not, allow something like to happen to me.
“Doctor, I’ve been able to hold it together OK while on the job—so far. I just need my rest, and I don’t want it to get any more out of hand. What do you think? Can you help me get through this?”
“Kevin, PTSD affects different people in different ways. In your case, you seem to be conflicted over your actions toward the boy’s father and your feelings toward your own son. Ten years is a long time to have these unresolved feelings, and stress is the trigger here. Your job is all about stress, so it’s obvious you must get treatment or you’ll continue to suffer. If you don’t deal with this, I guarantee your work will suffer. You will start acting out more at work, and you know what can happen then. I need to meet with you more about this, but you have taken an important step toward healing yourself by admitting you need help and by coming in to see me today. I’m going to prescribe a mild sedative that will help you get to and stay asleep as well. Things will get better, I can assure you.”
I wouldn’t take the prescription Dr. Thompson offered. Hell, I was an ex-narc, for Christ’s sake. He suggested Zoloft for antianxiety and a sleep medication. I didn’t like drugs, and I research everything I take. I didn’t want to become a cast member of The Walking Dead. I agreed not to drink for a while, though—a drying-out period of sorts. I had to admit that I missed my beer! I met with Sam six times over the next few weeks, and the dreams slowed way down during that period. He suggested I write down my feelings, so I kept a short journal. I began getting better sleep, and I felt a lot better. I made it a point to spend more time with my family, away from thinking about the case—just me and the people who cared about me. I also knew I needed to do something else and that it wouldn’t be easy.
“Hello. Is this the Taylor home?”
“Yes, it is.”
“Is Bill Taylor there?”
“Just a minute. Dad!”
“Hello, can I help you?”
“Actually, Mr. Taylor, I hope you can. This is Kevin Rhinehardt…er…Deputy Rhinehardt of the Santa Barbara County Sheriff’s Office. Do you remember me?”
After a long pause, he said, “You’re the deputy who found Sean, aren’t you?”
“Yes, I am. I’ve been meaning to call you for a long time—actually, for several years. I need to tell you that…well, I’m sorry. I am so sorry for how I acted that day, for how I treated you and your wife.”
Bill Taylor sobbed loudly on the phone.
I tried to choke back tears, too, but they flowed anyway.
Then surprisingly, the man said, “You shouldn’t be sorry, Deputy. You were right. I was the one who’s been sorry. I didn’t watch my boy Sean. I was drinking…He died because of me.”
“Mr. Taylor, Bill, don’t say that. We all make mistakes. I’ve made my share, and we all made mistakes that day. I kept you from holding your boy, and that was so wrong of me. It’s easy to get wrapped up in stuff and to miss what’s important.”
“Yeah, Deputy, but it cost my boy his life! I had to live with that for a long time; I always will. My marriage almost broke up, and I got to drinkin’—I became an alcoholic. Things are better now, though. I’ve sobered up, and my wife and I have moved on. We even had another child—a daughter, Kate. She’s my shining star now. She’s everything to me. Deputy, Kevin, so why did you call me today—why really?”
“I see your son’s face in my dreams at night, Bill. He’s back in the water…I see my own son there drowned instead of him sometimes.”
“Oh no. How long has this been happening, man?”
“Ten years.”
“My God, Deputy, Kevin, let it go. You did good by Sean that day. You brought him back to us. If it’s worth anything, I forgive you. I never blamed you for anything…Can you forgive me, though?”
>
We laughed a little and cried even more that day. It was a pleasant conversation. In the end, we realized that we were just two men with demons in common. I got his e-mail address, and we exchanged some family pictures. His Katy was a beautiful little girl with long blond hair, just like her brother.
Chapter Ten
There’s No Such Thing as a Coincidence
The day after our delightful chat with the esteemed attorney, Robert Richardson, Sarge asked me to step into his office and told me to “close the door.” I felt my sphincter quivering in anticipation.
“Rhino, we need to talk about Rachael Storm. She’s been sitting around here with her thumb up her ass, and if we don’t throw her a bone, that bulldog is gonna bite us—maybe right in our asses.”
“Come on, Bob. This is the same reporter who made it look like we have a serial killer out there, randomly slaughtering people, and she manipulated my words to match her damn story line. Do I want to trust her with important information? Hell, no! No way!”
Bob’s voice had a serious tone to it now. “Look, I take responsibility for her being here. I didn’t argue with Walters against it. So, if she screws us, I will take the heat. I’ll fall on the sword. So although I won’t order you to start sharing information, I’m fucking telling you to do it. Am I clear on this?”
Oh, my God, Bob cursed. Bob Roberts never cursed. I sensed he was a tad worked up, so figuring I was about to get my head ripped off, I replied, “Whatever you say, Sergeant.”
As I tried to leave, he continued, “One more thing, Rhinehardt. You got a stack of patrol eleven-ten reports on your desk. Take care of ’em. I’ve got no one else to hand them off to, so close ’em or send ’em to the DA. Now leave me alone, because I’ve got plenty of work to do myself.”
I left Roberts and dragged Ted Banner into our toilet Cone of Silence to share my marching orders and to commiserate. We had no other choice now. We had to sleep with the enemy (no pun intended).
Slice of Greed: A Kevin Rhinehardt Mystery (BOL Mysteries Book 1) Page 7
