Protective Behavior

by L A Witt

  “Which you’ve done.” Ryan took my hand. “You’re good at it.”

  I slowly shook my head. “But how many of them have I let slip past because of my own prejudices and blind spots? When the auditors review all those cases… How many of my investigations were…” I grimaced, and I didn’t finish the thought because I didn’t relish the idea of actually throwing up while my side was still stitched and stapled to hell and back.

  His brow pinched. “You think you’ll lose your job?”

  “I don’t think…” I thought about it as hard as my foggy mind could, then shook my head again. “No. I don’t… I don’t think so. Maybe? Honestly, though, I think I’m more worried about being able to sleep at night.” I exhaled, wincing at the pain in my core. “Where’s the line between enabling dirty cops and being one?”

  “Mark.” Ryan rubbed his thumb alongside my hand. “You’re not a dirty cop. The very fact that you’re worried about this says you’re still on the right side of things. You’re blowing the systemic problem open even though you know damn well it could come out that you enabled the problem and maybe even contributed to it. You can’t change the past, but you’re willing to put your own neck on the line if it means things are better going forward.” He brought my hand up and pressed a soft kiss to my fingers. “That has to count for something, doesn’t it?”

  “Doesn’t change how many cops could very well still have their badges and guns because I couldn’t see that they were racist mother—”

  “Mark.” He looked pointedly in my eyes. “Don’t get ahead of yourself. You don’t even know if any of your investigations will come back as problematic.”

  I said nothing. I wasn’t sure what else there was to say.

  “Listen.” He laced our fingers together. “You’re a good cop. I saw the way you busted your ass for Martin Fredericks, and that was before you knew there was a widespread problem.”

  I nodded. “I know. I’m just…” Exhaling, I shook my head. “I don’t know. I saw my own name come up a few too many times when I was looking through past shootings, and I don’t know what that means yet.”

  “Well, we’ll see what the auditors turn up.” He squeezed my hand. “But I don’t think you have as much to worry about as you think.”

  “I guess we’ll see.”

  “Yeah. We will.” He checked his phone. “It’s almost two. When was the last time you ate something?”

  “Um. You tell me.”

  Sliding his phone into his back pocket, he said, “Why don’t I run back down and get you something from the cafeteria?”

  I was still queasy, but admittedly, food sounded good. “Okay. Sure.”

  “Same thing as last time? Turkey and cheddar?”

  I nodded. “Yeah. Thanks.”

  “Okay.” He stood and paused for one of those soft kisses that had become his hello and goodbye (well, when my boss wasn’t around), and then he headed downstairs to find some food.

  Alone again, I closed my eyes and sighed. Ryan was right that I didn’t know if any of my investigations would raise red flags, and we both knew it. Statistically, though, given the makeup of the cases I’d combed through—I was pessimistic about the odds of every one of my investigations passing this audit. I was confident I hadn’t allowed anything blatant to slide past me—the shooting where the detective was caught on camera using a racial slur just before gunning down an unarmed man, for example. Or the officer who’d demonstrated a pattern of escalating violence toward minority suspects, culminating in a shooting that, if someone squinted hard enough, could maybe look like self-defense, but definitely wasn’t. Those were the cases where demotions and firings were most likely to happen, including the Internal Affairs personnel who were involved.

  I wasn’t worried about being tangled up in one of those. It was the subtler cases that had my stomach in knots. The more insidious incidents where dead men told no tales, and I’d taken officers and detectives and their partners at their word that they’d been good shoots. Unfortunate accidents. Last resort self-defense. Suicide by cop. Where the decorated white veteran of the force, respected by his peers and community, had insisted time and again that the belligerent thug had been “reaching for something I could only assume in the moment was a weapon.” Where “the situation got out of control and I was afraid for my life and that of my partner’s.”

  Had I let those cops return to duty? Had I let someone literally get away with murder when I would’ve questioned it a little more thoroughly had the victim been white? Or been a little more skeptical if the officer had been black?

  I wanted to believe I hadn’t, and that I’d been thorough and objective with every case put in front of me since the beginning of my career.

  But that teetering stack of folders on my desk didn’t lie. Neither did my name on too many of the reports inside those folders. There was just too much evidence for me to believe that, even with what I’d thought were the best of intentions, I hadn’t had on blinders that affected the outcomes of my investigations.

  I’d taken my lumps after wrongfully pursuing Detective Ruffner over a misguided suspicion that he was a drug-abusing dirty cop, and after not seeing the ring of dirty cops working for our corrupt mayor (may he rest in hell). I’d take whatever came my way after this audit was over. Maybe I’d still have a job. Maybe I wouldn’t.

  I just hoped my conscience could cope with whatever the results were.

  My recovery had some ups and downs. The long periods of uninterrupted time with Ryan weren’t exactly what I’d had in mind when I’d been hoping to actually see him for a while, but I’d take silver linings where I got them.

  I was home now, thank God. An infection had put me back in the ICU for a couple of days, and I’d been stuck in that stupid hospital for the better part of three weeks. Not long after I finally came home, my cat did exactly what Ryan had predicted—she dive-bombed me off the back of the couch. Some cursing and a few stitches later, Harley went to live with the Ruffners for a couple of weeks while I finished healing.

  I’d finally healed, and I’d finally brought my cat home last night. I’d been miserable without her, she’d been miserable living someplace else, and everyone was much happier now that she was home. Everyone except Andreas, anyway. According to some texts Erin received from her stepfather, there was serious talk about adopting a cat.

  I was healed enough to get around and function. My cat was home.

  Now the fun part—going back to work.

  Ryan insisted on driving me even though I was long since off my pain meds and didn’t have any wounds in danger of tearing open again. I was pretty sure it was overkill, but honestly, I wasn’t going to bitch about spending a little more time with him. Especially since he’d already gone back to work, which had seriously cut into our time together.

  He pulled up in front of the precinct and turned to me. “Take it easy today, okay?”

  “I will.” I leaned across the console for a quick kiss. “See you tonight?”

  “Definitely. I’m not on call or anything.”

  I grinned, and so did he. There’d been a time not so long ago when being together for an evening without him being on call would mean the promise of sex. I still wasn’t sure if I was physically ready for that yet, and we’d see how we both felt after long days at our respective jobs. But if we ended up lounging on the couch and watching TV? That was perfectly fine.

  For now—work.

  Reluctantly, I got out of the car and headed inside.

  When I walked into the office, the hair on my neck stood on end. There were banker’s boxes all over the place, each marked with a ticket to return them to archive at City Hall. Lieutenant Bridges had told me yesterday that the audit was complete. Whatever the fallout, I’d find out today.

  “Hey!” Erin smiled as she got up from her desk, but she seemed edgier than usual. “How are you feeling?”

  “Human.” I let her hug me gently, and as she pulled back, I asked, “How’s it been w
ith…” I motioned toward the boxes.

  “Tense.” She chafed her arms. “Especially once they started bringing people in for their reviews.”

  “Yeah? How’d those go?”

  “I don’t know specifics, but Detectives Bauer and Connelly are gone.”

  “Gone?” I blinked. “Like…”

  “Like packed up their shit and left.” She grimaced. “Detective Lowell is still here, but she looked rattled as hell when she came out of her meeting yesterday. I think Bridges spent like two hours talking her down.”

  I whistled. “Jesus. Anybody else?”

  “No. Everyone else is back to work, business as usual. There are some new requirements for reports and stuff, so people are trying to figure those out.” She gestured over her shoulder with her thumb. “There’s a binder on your desk that explains it all.”

  “Okay. Great. I’ll take a look at it before I—”

  “Detective?” Lieutenant Bridges leaned out of the conference room doorway and beckoned to me.

  I scowled. “Scratch that—I’ll take a look after…”

  “Yeah,” Erin said. “Good luck.”

  “Thanks.”

  Three of the longest hours of my life later, I eased myself into my desk chair and wiped sweat from my forehead.

  I still had my job. Six of my cases had warranted a deeper analysis. Four had necessitated re-interviewing the officers involved, including two who had since gone to prison as part of the late mayor’s narcotics racket. Only one had compelled an auditor to go speak to family of the victim, which was a relief. The families had been through enough without having old wounds reopened.

  In the end, there’d been no evidence of bias or wrongdoing in my investigations. The auditor had cautioned me not to rest on my laurels—that the inability to see that bias in the files didn’t mean it didn’t exist. That she could only go by what was in the reports and what she saw and heard in recorded interviews. I wouldn’t face disciplinary action, but like everyone in my department, I would be under significantly heavier scrutiny going forward.

  An Equal Opportunity oversight office would be opened. Effective immediately, every case that went through IAB would be reviewed by EO, which would have the authority to demand an investigation into an IA official if there was reason to believe the case had not been handled appropriately.

  A new training program commenced next week, and was mandatory for everyone from desk clerks on up to the commissioner himself, IAB included. Body cameras were now required for all uniformed officers.

  According to Bridges, there’d been grumbling in the ranks about all the new “politically correct” changes, and at least four older officers in three precincts had decided to retire before the department “got any softer.” Good riddance, as far as I was concerned.

  I was apparently supposed to feel guilty that the city was now going to be paying out not-insignificant settlements on a number of cases where IAB had wrongfully come out in favor of the officer, but I didn’t. The only thing I felt guilty about in that respect was that it had taken so long for me to see the problem that was so painfully obvious now that it was out there.

  I closed my eyes and rubbed them with the heels of my hands. All these changes and policies were small steps, and nothing could completely eradicate the internalized bias, but it was movement in the right direction. I still wasn’t convinced I hadn’t been part of the problem all this time—that I’d unconsciously allowed my biases to permeate my judgment—but I would damn sure be part of the solution.

  Releasing a long breath, I opened my eyes, and I looked down at the thick blue binder on my desk.

  Policies & Procedures to Remove Racial & Other Biases from Internal Affairs Investigations. Volume 1.

  “All right,” I murmured into my empty office as I opened the binder. “Let’s do this.”

  Chapter 24

  Ryan

  I pulled up outside Mark’s place at six-thirty, half an hour after he texted me that Erin was taking him home. I’d been off work since four—if it really qualified as off when I actually ended up spending an hour with my therapist, a former surgeon whose meticulousness and wit gave me Hannibal Lecter vibes, but who understood the demands of my job. I’d been seeing him twice a week for four weeks, ever since going back to work myself, but damned if I knew if it was doing me any good yet.

  No, scratch that. It was definitely doing me some good, because the first thing he said to me today after I described how little sleep I was getting was “You know, your circumstances allow for you to avoid the self-flagellation of living in a place where you have no desire to be.”

  “Huh.” Not how I would have described it, but… “So I shouldn’t feel bad about wanting to move, then.”

  “Absolutely not.”

  “What about facing my fears, and all that?”

  He’d shaken his head slightly. “Your living space shouldn’t operate as a means of testing your mental health. That will only serve to make you hypervigilant in your own home, which will in turn make it harder to maintain a healthy equilibrium in other parts of your life. If you don’t want to risk burnout at work, you need to have a home that helps you relax instead of increasing your anxiety.”

  Hearing that was a huge relief. I didn’t want to be a wimp about it, but I also hadn’t been able to walk up my driveway since Mark got shot there, even though there was no physical evidence left of his ordeal. I had an especially vivid memory for trauma.

  I shook my head and got out of the car, carrying the takeout with me. Mark lived in a nice neighborhood, a little noisier than mine, but I liked being able to hear other people going about their evening. I walked up to his door, knocked, then unlocked it myself it so he wouldn’t have to get up to let me in. I was sure he’d had a looong day today, and I loved any excuse to use the key he’d given me.

  “Hey Ryan,” he called from what sounded like the dining room. Harley was already in the hall, nudging at my shins and purring.

  “Hi.” I toed my shoes off, then leaned down and petted the cat under the chin until I got a purr. “You should know that I utilized an unfair advantage in your name today.”

  “You did what?” He came around the door into the hall, looking skeptical. “How, exactly?”

  Mark was wearing moose socks. I’d never seen them before—a gag gift from Erin, maybe? They definitely weren’t a normal part of his wardrobe. He was in a comfy sweater, too, something he’d never wear to work. Mark was clearly in comfort mode. I decided not to torment him anymore. I hoisted the bag in my hand.

  “I got takeout at Pasta Jay’s. When I told them it was for you, they gave me garlic knots free of charge.”

  The tension between us suddenly vanished as he rolled his eyes. “Don’t scare me like that.”

  “Sorry.” I hung my coat up, then came over and kissed him, sliding my free hand gently around his hip as Harley wove in between our feet. Mark curled his hands around the back of my neck and held me there, warm and content in my arms, but nothing beyond that. Not yet, anyway. Recovery from his shooting and my beating had put an end to our sex life for the time being, but I liked cuddling with Mark as much as I’d liked blowing him. Jesus, I was in deep.

  The kiss finally ended, and as I leaned back I took in just how drawn he looked. “Rough day at work?”

  “No rougher than it had to be.”

  Still pretty bad, then. “How about I dish this stuff up, and you meet me in the living room and tell me about your day?”

  He sighed. “Okay.”

  Wow. He must be exhausted if he wasn’t even going to make mention of me not needing to baby him, that his physical terrorist said he needed to be moving around, etc. Whatever the reason, I was grateful to get the chance to look after him more.

  After two minutes of assembling the plates—I’d been over here often enough by now to know where he kept the important stuff in the kitchen—I met him in the living room. “Gnocchi alla Sorrentina,” I said, handing him a pasta bowl fu
ll of pure comfort food. I sat down next to him on the couch, something he’d only started favoring since I began coming over, and settled in next to him. “Tell me the upside.”

  “I’m still employed by IA.”

  I let out a small, purely internal sigh of relief. I had absolute faith in Mark, but I knew he’d been worried sick over the possibility he could have been a contributor to the police department’s systemic racism. I understood the worry—doctors weren’t above issues with discrimination in patient treatment, despite our Hippocratic oath. All Saints did clinical audits of its practitioners on a regular basis, and we were better for it.

  “Tell me more.”

  He went through his day, from his interview with his boss to the new requirements for his department, culminating with a personal visit from a conservative city councilman who told Mark point-blank that he wasn’t happy with this “witch hunt” and that he’d be watching Mark from here on out.

  “It’s only a witch hunt if you don’t catch any witches,” I said when Mark finally ran out of steam. “You said some cases have already been overturned, right? And a few people have resigned?”

  “Not that resigning will save them from the courts, but yes.” He took a bite and shrugged, wincing just a bit. “Speaking of the courts, it looks like DeMarco is finally playing along with the DA. He’s going to testify against Russel in the Fredericks case in exchange for a lighter sentence. Russel’s on suicide watch.”

  “Ah.” I looked down at my bowl. Suddenly, the mix of red sauce and white cheese made me vaguely nauseous.

  Mark set his hand on my knee and squeezed. “Are you okay?”

  “Yeah. I think so? I’m…” I blew out a breath. “I just don’t like thinking about him.” Especially not Russel and any more mention of violence, even against himself. “Do we know if I’ll need to testify yet?”

  “Lieutenant Bridges is doing everything she can to avoid it. We might get enough from DeMarco to make everyone else’s testimony superfluous.”