Troop 18

by Jessica L. Webb

  Chapter Thirteen

  With the ambulance gone, the scene around Kurtz’ B&B had been leached of all its energy. Kurtz and Meyers talked with the two local cops while Zeb leaned against a fence post, feigning like he wasn’t in pain while talking to the fire guys. Doors to vehicles were open, overhead lights on, uniformed bodies half-wedged into cars as paperwork was balanced on a knee. It was the post-scene, something Andy was familiar with. It was the cleaning up, the following through, the documenting of times and people and places, statements to be transcribed and filed, awaiting the future possibility of a court case. Andy checked in with Captain Wilfred and thanked him and his crew for their time. She said nothing about methadone, nothing about the troop. That would be up to Lincoln.

  Cadets stood in clusters, looking bewildered and lost and scared. Andy had to scan twice before finding Shipman, standing in the middle of his troop, looking exactly like every other cadet standing beside him. What he didn’t look like was an addict. Though the story Shipman had given had made sense, confirmed by Kate who said intermittent doses of oral methadone could exactly explain Trokof’s symptoms, Andy still couldn’t make this detail fit with what she knew or thought she understood of Greg Shipman.

  Finally, questions and paperwork were completed, gear stashed, crews reloaded, and the fire truck and cruisers left the Clearwater B&B.

  “Come on, Troop 18, everyone into the house,” Kurtz called out. “We’ll find some way to feed you all and find you dry clothes.” Without waiting for a reply, she marched the cadets around to the front of the house. The deep, cold wet of her uniform seemed to press against Andy’s bones. Every inch of her was soaked and cold, mud up to her knees and streaked across her face. As she watched the cadets follow Kurtz, Andy felt the tug of control and responsibility. She hadn’t figured out what they were going to do with the troop or the instructors tonight. Let Kurtz help, let some control go, Andy lectured herself. She heard boots behind her and turned to see Les with spent tears streaking her face.

  “Christ, what a fuck up,” Les said, her voice quivering.

  Andy wasn’t sure what she was referring to: the accidental overdose, Shipman admitting he was an addict, or her own behaviour. But as Les walked up to her, Andy put an arm around the woman’s shoulder. Les gave a choked sound, furiously wiping tears from her eyes.

  “I am living proof of the adage, ‘those who can’t do, teach.’ I’m not proud of it, but there it is.”

  Andy said nothing, just squeezed Les’s shoulders as they slowly followed the cadets down the gravel driveway to the front door. Andy didn’t seem to be the only one supporting someone else. Up ahead, she saw Foster and Petit helping Zeb navigate the steps up to the porch.

  “I’m really sorry, Andy. I’m sorry I wasn’t more help…”

  “Crisis is over, Les, let it go,” Andy said firmly. “We got Trokof down from camp, he’s in good hands, and Kate will call with an update. Right now I need you to help me take care of the troop.”

  Les used the heel of her hand to wipe away fresh tears. Then she shook her head like she was clearing away difficult thoughts or disturbing images. Andy wondered if something had happened in Les’s past that made her react this way. She certainly wouldn’t be the first officer to suffer from post-traumatic stress. But Les wasn’t offering any details, and Andy wasn’t going to ask.

  “They need you right now,” Andy said, her voice gentle.

  “I’m in,” Les said, forcing a cheerfulness she obviously didn’t feel. But she was trying.

  Wet gear and cadets dominated the inside of Clearwater B&B. The front door was a sea of neatly lined up, muddy black combat boots with coats piled nearby. Tara directed traffic, handing out towels, assigning cadets to rooms, saying they would bring up dry clothes shortly. Les and Andy pulled off their own boots and waded into the chaos. Kurtz and Tara’s guests were in the middle of the living room, Penny handing out dry clothes with wide eyes, while her husband Al reiterated Tara’s directions to various rooms in the house. They looked like they were having the time of their lives instead of being in the midst of a crisis.

  “Use our room,” Tara said to Andy, handing her a towel. “Find something to wear in the dresser then come help me feed the troop.”

  Andy gave her a swift kiss on the cheek. “I owe you,” she said, wondering how many times she’d uttered those words in the last few weeks.

  Tara gave a shake of her head, her long braid swishing against her back. “Don’t worry. Rosie’s already told me you intend to pay us back by staying for a visit,” she warned, smiling her beatific smile.

  Andy climbed the stairs, soaked cadets looking like half-drowned puppies were huddled outside rooms, waiting their turn to dry off and change. As Andy entered the upstairs hallway, they hushed and fidgeted. Shipman leaned miserably against the wall, his eyes downcast like he wasn’t even really aware of where he was. And his former troop no longer knew what to do or how to protect him.

  “We’ll talk,” Andy said to them, her sergeant’s tone softened by the circumstance. “When everyone is dry and fed, then we’ll all sit down and talk.”

  “But I’m done,” Shipman said from his place on the wall. “We don’t need to talk about that.”

  Andy waited for him to look up. He did, eventually. “Chief Training Officer Lincoln is on his way here right now. I expect him in the morning. He’s the only one who can give those directives,” Andy told the cadet. She wasn’t fooling anyone, but the information could not come from her.

  She left the cadets to silently contemplate Lincoln’s arrival, seeking each other out as Shipman closed his eyes and shut everyone out. Good luck, Andy thought to herself. She was sure Troop 18 was not going to let him go that easily.

  Twenty minutes later, Andy was standing at the stove in too-short track pants and a soft sweat shirt, stirring a hunk of frozen split pea soup in one pot, beef barley in another. Shandly and Tara were up to their elbows in flour and butter, mixing the ingredients for enough biscuits to feed an army. Kurtz and Tara’s guests happily carried coffee and tea from the kitchen to the growing number of dried off cadets in the living room. Andy half-listened to Les’s voice as she ensured everyone was accounted for, dry, and uninjured.

  She pictured Kate at the Kamloops hospital, probably impatient and slightly bored, not allowed to treat Trokof, just sit with him and read his chart. Andy felt a pang of worry as she realized Kate must still be soaking wet and freezing. And probably hungry, Andy thought with a smile. Kate was always hungry.

  Andy stirred soup and worried. Without Sgt. Trokof’s steadying presence, without his innate ability to know exactly what the troop needed, Andy couldn’t help but think the troop should be treated like suspects and witnesses with separate rooms, questions asked, and statements taken. Her cop instinct was telling her there was a case to be built. But Andy didn’t have the energy for it. And if she was being honest with herself, she didn’t have the stomach for it, either.

  “What’s on your mind, Sgt. Wyles?”

  Andy hadn’t heard Kurtz enter the kitchen and when she looked up from her simple, mindless task, she realized they were alone.

  “I don’t know if the troop should be supported or punished right now,” Andy finally said, breaking up the last frozen chunk of soup with the wooden spoon. She put the lids on both massive stainless steel pots and adjusted the temperature. Then she leaned back against the counter, looking for advice from her former senior officer.

  “Punish them for what?” Kurtz said.

  “Shipman admitted he’s been using, I have to assume the rest of the troop knows and, at the very least, they’ve been helping cover it up. It could be worse than that. More than one cadet may have actively engaged in illegal activity, possibly the procurement of drugs.”

  “Who do you work for?”

  Andy looked at her, confused. “E-division,” Andy said, slowly.

  “Does your jurisdiction extend to investigating potentially unlawful activity at Depot
Division?”

  “No, of course not.”

  “And were you at any time requested by Staff Sergeant Finns or Chief Training Officer Lincoln to begin gathering evidence and building a case against a cadet or group of cadets?”

  Andy considered this question, remembering every detail of her original conversation with Finns and Lincoln. “No,” Andy said finally.

  “Then keep the status quo, sergeant. I’d say that’s what Lincoln expects from you right now,” Kurtz said, picking up the baking bowls off the butcher block island and running them under hot water. “Sometimes you don’t need to do, you just need to maintain.”

  “I hate not doing,” Andy said, though she felt a little better having clarified her role.

  “I know!” Kurtz said and thumped Andy energetically on the back. “That’s one of the reasons I agreed to write the recommendation for your three chevies,” Kurtz added, using the slang term for the sergeant’s three chevron insignia.

  Andy listened to the buzz of voices from beyond the swinging kitchen doors. Maintain, keep them together, wait for Lincoln to get here. Andy could do that.

  Serving twenty-five people soup and biscuits was basically an obstacle course. Tara finally made everyone find a place to sit, and she appointed three people to help her serve. Andy wasn’t the least bit surprised the cadets chose to all squeeze into the living room, squished onto couches, perched on chairs, and spread across the floor. Andy leaned against a wall and surveyed the scene, feeling true warmth for the first time in hours as hot soup heated her from the inside out.

  The cadets seemed calmer, their senses lulled into warmth and comfort and camaraderie. Shipman had wedged himself against a wall underneath the window that looked over the back meadow. He was silent but colour had returned to his cheeks as he attacked his bowl of soup. Frances and Petit sat nearby, saying nothing but watching their friend with careful, worried expressions. Cadet Jacob Frances hadn’t even touched his bowl of soup, and Andy was just wondering about this when the phone rang. The cadets instantly went quiet. A minute later, Kurtz signalled for Andy to join her in the kitchen, handing her the phone silently as the door swung shut behind them. Kate’s voice was low and professional.

  “Trokof is doing fine,” she said immediately. “He’s been triaged and seen by a resident and they’ve got him on a monitor. If his arrhythmia doesn’t even out in the next few hours, they’ll admit him for observation. But he’s stable, and there’s no reason to think he won’t fully recover from this.”

  Relief flooded Andy’s body. “Thank God,” Andy said out loud, giving Kurtz a thumbs up. Kurtz returned it and headed back out of the kitchen. Andy assumed she was going to give the cadets the good news. “How are you?” Andy said.

  “Damp. And cranky. That could be low blood sugar, though,” Kate added thoughtfully. “How are you? How’s the troop?”

  “I’m fine, the troop’s fine. Are you going to stay the night?”

  “Probably. At least until I know if he’s going to be admitted or released,” Kate said. Andy wasn’t surprised. “I hate to leave him here by himself.”

  “You’re a good person, Kate.”

  “No cop left behind or something, right? Is that what I’m supposed to say now that I’m employed by the RCMP?”

  Andy laughed. “Something like that. Call when you know what’s happening, I’ll come pick you up.”

  “Okay,” Kate yawned. “Before I go, how’s Shipman?”

  Andy chose her answer carefully. “Resigned to his fate.”

  “Hmmm…” Kate said, clearly unsatisfied by Andy’s response. “He would have had help beating the drug screens. We should have seen something behaviourally, if not medically.”

  “Are you saying you don’t believe him?”

  “I’m just saying it’s not adding up for me yet,” Kate said cautiously.

  “You and me both,” Andy said. “I’m going to talk to the troop, see what comes up.”

  “Okay,” Kate said distractedly. “Trokof’s waking up, I’ve got to go. Love you.”

  Andy returned it, the words warming her just a little more.

  When she walked back into the living room, the cadets were talking in low, excited tones. Andy found Les in the far corner near the hallway with Zeb, who was sitting with his leg up on an ottoman, a bandage bulging with ice wrapped around his foot. The crisis had passed, and Les looked calmer.

  “You’ve heard Sgt. Trokof is going to be okay.” Andy raised her voice to address the whole room. “Dr. Morrison said they might admit him for observation, but he’s expected to make a full recovery.”

  The words eased some of the tension in the room, but it wasn’t entirely gone. Troop 18 still gestured and communicated their silent language. Andy waited, standing at the front of the room like their conversation was not yet over.

  “Does he know it was us?” Cadet Shandly asked from the couch. She was wedged between Hellman and Awad, an empty soup bowl on her lap, her dark hair framing her pale face. “Does Sgt. Trokof know that we are the ones…”

  Greg Shipman didn’t let her finish the question. He stood up abruptly. “That I am the one who…” Shipman struggled with the words, like he couldn’t force himself to finish the sentence. Andy watched him struggle but didn’t help him out. “Who poisoned him. Accidentally. Who…who almost killed him. Does he know that?”

  “I don’t know,” Andy answered. She hadn’t thought to ask Kate and she couldn’t be sure what Trokof had understood of the conversation in the medical cabin.

  Shipman glared at Andy like she was keeping something back. She returned his look impassively. He then turned to his troop and gave them the same, warning look. If Andy was reading it right, he was telling them all to shut the hell up. Across the room, Les was clearly picking up the same signals.

  “We know you had help covering this up, Shipman,” Les said, her tone even and gentle. “We know the whole troop was involved.” It wasn’t quite an accusation but a reminder of the basic facts.

  But Shipman was shaking his head. “It was me. It was only me. I did this on my own.” Shipman’s voice was robotic, repetitive, desperate. He was lying, and every single person in the room knew it. Prewitt-Hayes had her head in her hands, and Andy was pretty sure she was crying. Foster’s gaze was fixed on Shipman across the room. Andy was shocked to see the intense anger in his eyes, his hands clenched into fists at his side. Frances sat dejectedly behind Shipman, his head hung low. He was still holding a full bowl of soup. A tremor shook through the cadet. The soup spoon rattled against the ceramic dish, and Frances clenched it tighter. Another tremor caused his knee to jump involuntarily, splashing soup onto the leg of his pants.

  Facts raced, information surfaced and retreated, details refocused and strengthened, leaving a firm trail of suspicion in Andy’s mind. Andy addressed the troop, choosing her words very carefully. “We don’t need to do this now,” Andy said to the room. “Chief Training Officer Lincoln will be here in the morning. He will have a lot of questions. And my advice might not mean a damn thing to any one of you, but I suggest you spend some time tonight thinking about why you’re here.” Andy paused, every eye riveted to her.

  She thought briefly about Kate saying the troop would trust her. That she offered them a way out. “I think you should all spend some time thinking about what motivated you to apply to Depot, and what you’ve accomplished as individuals and as a troop since you arrived. And you should think about where you want to go from here. Because your answers to the TO tomorrow will shape a lot of lives.”

  Andy left it there, reminding herself she could only lead them to the right decision; she couldn’t force them to make it. Shipman had angled his body against the wall so Frances was now almost completely hidden, but she saw Frances was shaking almost uncontrollably now, the sound of the spoon against the bowl a very soft but distinct sound in the room.

  “Assign teams, Cadet Prewitt-Hayes,” Andy said. “Dishes, laundry, and bedding. Let’s treat Kurtz and
Tara’s place with some respect, okay?”

  But Prewitt-Hayes seemed incapable of pulling herself together. She sat on the couch shaking her head, tears streaming down her face. Shandly took a long look at her troop leader and stood up.

  “Take a break, Tracey, we’ve got this. I’ll be on dishes with three volunteers. Petit, talk to Tara about the laundry, and Mancini start figuring out with Kurtz where everyone is going to sleep. Everyone else just stay out of the way.”

  The cadets broke up, the relief of a goal and action evident in the way they moved. Each of them glanced at least once at Frances before looking at Shipman who gave an imperceptible nod or a glare, like he was reassuring them that he had it under control.

  Andy wound her way through the living room to where Les and Zeb were still sitting. Meyers materialized out of nowhere, wearing an extra-large green t-shirt with the name of a hunting camp splayed across the front. Andy assumed Kurtz’s guests had donated some clothing to their cause.

  “Let’s let them off the hook tonight,” Andy said in a low tone. “They’re coming undone, and Lincoln might as well be here for the fall-out.”

  Zeb bounced his good knee up and down, clearly jittery. “Fucking hell…methadone. Fuck. Heroin?”

  “Shhh,” Les admonished Zeb. “Not now, not here.”

  Meyers looked pointedly at the corner where Shipman was bent over, talking to Frances, blocking the cadet from view.

  “I know,” Andy said, almost under her breath. “We need to keep an eye on them. Both of them.”