Deviations

by Mike Markel

  “Do you have any questions for me?”

  Where to start? “The fourteen days—that’s paid?”

  “Of course.”

  “On the fifteenth day, am I fired?”

  “Why would you ask that?”

  “Couple reasons. First, I’ve missed some AA meetings, which you said were a condition for keeping the job. Second, I was insubordinate on the Weston case.”

  “On the AA meetings, let me be clear. I told you to do ninety in ninety. Obviously, you haven’t been able to do that. But my point was that I needed to know whether you would take it seriously. Your alcoholism, I mean. And from what I’ve learned, you are taking it seriously.”

  “How would you know that? That second A stands for Anonymous, right?”

  “I’m aware of that, Detective. But I know some people in the AA community here. I reached out to them.”

  “The signatures on the card aren’t good enough?”

  “Two things, Detective. As the head of a municipal agency, I have the right, by city charter, to require AA attendance as a condition of employment for individuals who have exhibited behavior indicating that it might be an appropriate means of monitoring job performance—”

  “You sound like a goddamn manual—”

  “Don’t interrupt me, Detective. And don’t ever speak disrespectfully to me.”

  I got up to leave. “Listen, Chief, this isn’t working. You’re gonna give me fourteen days’ leave because I got gang-raped on the job—well, sort of on the job. But then you’re gonna fire me, if not the next day, the next time I fuck up. And what’s worse—I don’t respect you. You treated me and Ryan like shit. You froze us out of that case. Maybe you treat everybody like shit, but I’m not gonna take it.”

  “Sit down, Detective. Now.”

  “What the fuck for?”

  “If you want to work for the Rawlings Police Department, you will sit down, right now. You will speak to me and to all other members of the Rawlings Police Department with respect. If you’re unwilling to do that, turn around, walk out of my office, and keep walking. I’ll gladly give you all the pay and benefits you’ve earned, just to be done with you.”

  I thought about it a little, and I sat down. “You’re right. I’m sorry, Chief. I shouldn’t have interrupted you, and I shouldn’t have spoken to you disrespectfully.”

  “All right, Detective. I’ve explained that I have a right to monitor your attendance and participation at AA meetings. And, as I was going to say, the reports I’ve gotten are that you are making real progress. You understand that you are an alcoholic, and you are coming to grips with what that means about how you have to live your life.” He shifted in his seat. “I have not mentioned this to anyone on the job here, but I am a recovering alcoholic, too. I have not had a drink in over eighteen years.”

  “Is that why you hired me?”

  “No, I hired you because you’re a good detective. But also because someone took a chance on me, eighteen years ago, when my career in law enforcement was over because of some things I’d done on the job.”

  “I see.”

  “I want to explain to you why I took the actions I did with the Dolores Weston case.”

  “I’d appreciate that.”

  “When Senator Weston’s body was recovered, with the 1488 on her chest, I immediately contacted Washington to see if this was a hate crime. They filled me in and dispatched Special Agent Friedman to head up the investigation.”

  “Yeah, I got that. But why didn’t you let me contact him when he went offline?”

  “It’s FBI protocol. They try to keep their agents under cover as much as possible to minimize the chances that civilians will learn of FBI involvement. That knowledge could jeopardize the integrity of the investigation—as well as the lives of the FBI agents. We’re in a much better position to investigate the crime if the perpetrators think we don’t know it’s a hate crime. They know that conviction on a federal offense carries stiffer mandatory penalties, including death. Do you understand that?”

  “Yes, I understand.”

  “Is there anything else you want to ask about his role in the investigation?”

  “I hear what you’re saying, but it doesn’t help morale when we get an idea for a way to get at Willson Fredericks, you tell us Friedman isn’t available and we should just hang tight.”

  “You’re right, Detective. That was unfortunate, and I’ll take responsibility for it. It isn’t that often that the feds come in like that and we have to defer to them. It was just bad timing that you started up with the department the same time Friedman came in. Plus, you and I haven’t worked together, and it takes a while to work through some of these communication issues.”

  “Friedman told me yesterday in the hospital that the feds weren’t interested in the Willson Fredericks death, that it was—I think he said that was a matter for local law enforcement. When I asked Ryan about it on the phone—out at Lake Hollow, before I was attacked—he said we hadn’t determined yet whether it was natural causes, suicide, or homicide. Where are we on that?”

  “It was a heart attack.”

  “Caused by us leaning on him?”

  “I know he was stressed, but I don’t see any evidence of a link. He was sixty three. He had a heart attack. He died. It happens.”

  “So there was no autopsy.”

  “That’s right. There was no trigger for an autopsy, and the family didn’t ask for one.”

  “There was a family?”

  “Yes, apparently an ex-wife from long ago. She claimed the body, brought it home to Wisconsin.”

  “So we never did track down the guy BC he was exchanging emails with—about patriot operations?”

  “That’s right,” the chief said. “There was nothing actionable in those emails, and with Leonard Woolsey dead, there’s no reason to pursue it. Anything else you want to ask?”

  “What are you gonna tell the press?”

  “About you?”

  “No, about the investigation.”

  “Nothing. The case is officially open, and we’re pursuing all leads. But we don’t have any forensic evidence, and none of the tips from the public have panned out. So, we look like chumps, but that’s the way the FBI handles this kind of operation. It’s part of their strategy of preventing the patriots from getting any publicity out of it, or making anyone a martyr. About you—”

  “I don’t give a damn about me.”

  “I do.” He paused but held his gaze. “Here’s how I’m going to handle it. When you get back from leave in two weeks, I’ll show you the text of a confidential report I’m adding to your file. You’ll tell me if you want anything changed, or if you want me to toss it out. Unfortunately, there won’t be any kind of commendation or public recognition, or even anything here in the department. Nobody will know what you did or what happened to you—except me and the psychiatrist, to the extent you want to reveal it to him. Is that acceptable?”

  “Yeah, Chief. I’m not interested in commendations or anything.”

  “Okay,” he said. “We’re going to start over—I mean, you and me—in fourteen days. I want you to understand my expectations. It’s my responsibility to be straight with you—and you have to be straight with me. This Friedman thing was an aberration. Under normal circumstances, I want to be kept in the loop at all times. A department this small, I want to be involved in every major case. I want to know where you are in an investigation. I need it because I have responsibilities—to the city, for instance, and the media—that call for that kind of information. In addition, I need the ability to intervene if you propose a strategy that I think will cause some other problems—or that just might not get us the results we want as quickly as possible. Does that sound reasonable?”

  “Yes, Chief.”

  “Let me say a few words about your decisions in working the Weston case. For starters, I can’t have you going off the grid, without even telling your partner what you were doing.”

  “I c
ouldn’t tell him what I was gonna do, Chief. I didn’t know what the hell was going on here, and I didn’t want him to be involved in any insubordination.”

  “I understand that,” he said. “But obviously, what you did—going in without backup, without even telling anyone—was extremely dangerous. You paid a terrible price.”

  I nodded. “Yeah, that wasn’t exactly textbook. On the other hand, the murderer is dead.”

  “Of course,” the chief said. “But so is Ricky Sidoway. He should be doing time for rape—if he was found competent to stand trial—but he shouldn’t be dead. As it stands now, the FBI has probably lost all leverage with Reverend Barry. That would have happened eventually, given Barry’s age, but he was a useful source for the FBI. I could see how, from your perspective, alienating a guy like Reverend Barry doesn’t sound so bad, but it’s a good thing anytime we can prevent a hate crime by keeping a lid on the kettle.”

  * * * *

  “The chief’s report indicates that you have sustained a work-related trauma and that he has placed you on fourteen-day leave.”

  I had made it a point not to think about what to say to Dr. Palchik—if it makes any sense to say that you’re thinking hard about not thinking about something. But there were really two issues going on here. One was the rapes. The other was the shrink himself. It had been less than a week since I’d had my Fitness for Duty exam here, which was a waste of everyone’s time, although it hadn’t really taken that much time. I never did figure out the purpose of the test, given that I’d flunked it with flying colors but the chief hired me anyway. Maybe it was just because the chief had to officially make me jump through a Crazy Hoop before he could hire me. He likes his procedures.

  Which made me wonder, of course, if the chief’s purpose in having me talk to Dr. Palchik now was so he could check off one more box on the increasingly lengthy Karen Seagate High-maintenance Checksheet. I mostly believed him that he wasn’t planning to fire me after I returned from leave, but it did occur to me that he just might decide one day that, shit, life is too short to have to babysit me all the time. Wouldn’t it be easier all around if he just could hire one or two of Ryan’s brothers or sisters? I mean, that’s how I’d handle it.

  So I wasn’t going into this session with Dr. Palchik with high expectations that he was going to cure what ails me. On the other hand, he didn’t seem like a bad guy or anything. And looking at it from his point of view, he didn’t get to choose how to spend this hour any more than I did.

  “Yes,” I said. “I did sustain a work-related trauma, I guess.”

  We were sitting in soft chairs, separated by his coffee table. He was holding a clipboard and a pen. It gave him something to do other than twiddling his thumbs while he waited for me to answer questions.

  “Do you want to tell me what happened?”

  I liked the way he phrased it. It gave me a kind of starter question. “Well, can I be honest with you?”

  He smiled and nodded. “Yes,” he said. “It works better.” It didn’t sound mean or sarcastic.

  “Honestly, I don’t really see how talking is gonna help me. What happened happened, and you’re not gonna be able to make it unhappen.”

  “That’s very true,” he said, patiently. “But if we talk about it a little, you might be able to understand it better, or figure out what to do about it. But maybe not.”

  I laughed, the sad kind. “You mean you’re not a miracle worker?”

  “A mediocre utility infielder, hitting .215, about to get sent back down to the minors? He has a better batting average than any psychiatrist. Certainly better than I do.”

  “Okay,” I said. I took a deep breath. “I was on the job. I got raped by two guys.” I was giving him the brief version to save time.

  He paused. “That sounds terrible.” He made a few notes on his clipboard, although I thought my story was sufficiently brief and memorable. Maybe taking notes is how he figures out what to say next. “I see you’ve got some bruises on your face. Did this happen recently?”

  “Couple days ago.”

  “When you say you were on the job, should I assume that these two guys were criminals, or at least suspects?”

  “One of them, definitely. He confessed to a murder. The other one, I think he was probably mentally incompetent. I don’t think he was a criminal, although he was taken advantage of by criminals.”

  “I haven’t seen anything in the newspaper about this.”

  “You’re not gonna see anything. It didn’t officially happen.”

  He looked at me a few moments, almost like he didn’t believe that something like that would happen in a small city like Rawlings. “Have you had a chance to start to process what happened?”

  “Tell you the truth, I don’t really know what that means.”

  “Well, you’re right, it’s a silly word. Like a food processor or a word processor. I really meant, have you had a chance to think about how you feel about what happened?”

  “If I told you I was planning to not think about it, I guess you’d tell me that that’s not the smart way to go.”

  “No,” he said, looking kind of interested. “I’d say you’re not going to be able to not think about it.”

  “How do you know? What if I’m special?”

  “Well, I’m sure you are special, Detective. We all are. It’s what makes us the same.” He smiled. “I’ve always enjoyed that line, but I believe it’s true.”

  “Yeah, it’s good. I like it.”

  “The fact that you say you were planning to not think about it—it’s like you’ve got a neon sign on your forehead flashing Thinking About It. The only kind of person who could not think about would be a psychopath, and you clearly are not a psychopath. Or completely delusional. Which you’re also not. The question is whether we can work on how to think about it productively, so that you can get beyond it.”

  “All right, what do you want to know?”

  “Why don’t you start by telling me some of your feelings about what happened? We’ll just go from there.”

  “Does rage qualify?”

  “Of course it does. About the rapes?”

  “That thing about doctor-patient confidentiality? Does that hold, even if my boss is paying the bill?”

  “It holds. One-hundred percent,” he said. “Tell me about the rage.”

  “All right. The guy who raped me—”

  “I thought you said it was more than one.”

  “The incompetent one didn’t count.”

  He lifted his eyebrow.

  “Take my word for it. The main guy, he was a murderer—”

  “You said ‘was’?”

  “Yeah, both the guys are dead. We killed them. Not me, personally. I guess you’d say it was a colleague, an FBI agent,” I said. “My point is, the main guy was kind of a Nazi. I don’t know if he’d killed a bunch of people, but I do know from another case, where he killed a woman, first he raped her.”

  Dr. Palchik wasn’t taking notes anymore, but I definitely had his full attention. “Go on,” he said.

  “These two rapes—me and this other woman—are not gonna be reported. They didn’t officially happen.”

  “I’m speechless,” he said.

  “That’s okay. I got some things to say.”

  * * * *

  “Hey, good to hear from you,” I said. Ryan had phoned me at home.

  “I talked to the chief. He said you’re on medical leave?”

  “Yeah, I got some kind of flu. You ever had it? Spewing out of both ends.”

  “Absolutely. I’ve got seven brothers and sisters. We shared everything. How long are you going to be out?”

  “I’ll probably take the rest of the week. It’ll be day-by-day next week.”

  “Do you need anything? I can run by your place and drop stuff off.”

  “No, thanks, that’s all right. I’ve got a neighbor here—a retired guy who likes to do that kind of thing. I’ll be fine.”

  “Ok
ay, let me know if you change your mind. Feel better.”

  “Yeah, thanks. I’ll probably see you next week.”

  Ryan was obviously not need-to-know. The chief was true to his word: the Dolores Weston case was still open, we didn’t have any new leads, and I’d be home sick for the next few days. Okay. I’d have to deal with that.

  I was scheduled to meet with Dr. Palchik a couple more times this week and three times next week. Plus, the department had authorized whatever other help I wanted from him or anyone else extending out as long as I needed. My headaches were starting to fade, my ribs were feeling better, my cuts and bruises were coming around. I still had the results of an STD test I was waiting on, but all in all, I was on schedule and getting better. Physically, anyway. The rage thing was going to take a long while.

  I was well enough to drive, although getting in the car without wincing took a little concentration. I bought food and started cooking dinner as if I still had a family. I attended AA every day, the meeting that Sarah did. She was glad to see me, worried when she saw me looking beat up. I told her it was a minor traffic accident, which she seemed to believe.

  I was getting in a groove. The shrink was helping me some with the rapes, and Sarah was helping me not drink. I would be able to work with the chief. Him being a former drunk—and choosing to tell me—gave me a little confidence he was at least semi-human and might cut me some slack. And maybe learn to see me as a detective he could trust. Of course, that would require me acting like a detective he could trust. But I was optimistic that I could do it. I had a feeling that things were going to smooth out for me from here on.

  Chapter 23

  I was still getting used to being alive. Everybody knows they’re going to die, of course, although you wouldn’t know it if you spent some time on traffic duty at two am on Saturday and Sunday, where you could pick up fifty teenagers driving with a BAC of 2.0, just in the city of Rawlings. But I mean among sober adults, sitting in chairs during the day, you ask them whether they’re going to die, they’re all going to say yes.