by V. K. Powell
Feeling physically in her element but emotionally disconnected, she started the cruiser and maneuvered into the light morning traffic. As she drove along the block, she wondered if she could ever reconcile killing, “justified” or not, with the person she imagined herself to be. But self-evaluation would have to wait as the radio crackled to life with her first call of the day.
*
Regan had barely settled at her desk and calmed her traitorous libido when the phone rang and she was summoned to her boss’s office.
Terry Blair was a physically fit baby boomer. His sharp blue eyes beamed with penetrating intelligence from beneath a crinkled forehead and a shock of white hair. They’d been working together for a year, and Regan had been honest with him about her reasons for leaving a high-paying, high-profile job for an assistant city attorney’s position. He’d been sympathetic and fair, enthusiastically accepting her into his cadre of lawyers. And as he’d become more comfortable with her abilities, he’d assigned progressively more difficult cases to her.
She took one of the two sleek leather club chairs in front of his oak desk and waited for him to finish the notes he was scribbling. When he closed the file he rounded the desk to sit beside her in the matching chair.
“How’s it going?” he asked, rubbing his palms together in a gesture Regan had come to recognize as a nervous tic.
“Good. So now that the pleasantries are out of the way, what’s the bad news?”
The surprised look on Terry’s face was priceless. “Bad news?”
“I may be the newest kid on the block but I wasn’t born yesterday. You’ve got something on your mind and I’m not going to like it, am I?”
“Probably not, but hear me out before you go postal on me. Okay?”
“If I were going postal, you wouldn’t be at the top of my list,” Regan replied dryly. “What are we looking at?”
“I’ve really been impressed with the caliber of your work. I want to give you another case, a more difficult case.” He hesitated.
Regan knew his reluctance to deliver unpleasant news was a result of his kind heart and appreciated him for it, but sometimes it was just annoying.
“It’s a civil suit against the city, the police department, and an officer involved in a line-of-duty shooting. I received the papers this morning.”
“And you want me to handle this?” Terry knew what had happened in the Fowler case she’d screwed up in Nashville. She was amazed he had enough confidence in her to entrust something similar to her so soon.
“You’re the best attorney I’ve got, Regan, and you’ve had the most recent experience.”
“Which, if you recall, was a bad one?” The last thing she needed right now was another complicated case full of uncertainty. Building a track record of losing those could tank her career.
“We all lose cases,” Terry said. “It’s part of the job. But we move on and you’ve done that.”
“If you could call quitting my job and relocating almost five hundred miles away moving on,” Regan said with a slight edge.
“I can’t justify leaving you in the spill-and-fill division forever.”
Regan smiled at Terry’s reference to the landfill and employment cases she’d been handling since her arrival. “I don’t think I’m ready, for obvious reasons.”
“You’re being too hard on yourself,” Terry responded softly. “And we both know you’re more than ready for a challenge. You’re so bored I’m amazed you can stay awake.”
“Point taken, but can I at least think about it?”
“Sure, you’ve got five minutes. We’re on a short turnaround for review and recommendations to the manager.”
The discomfort in Regan’s chest increased. Not only was she being asked to handle a case exactly like the one she’d lost in Nashville, but she would also have the added pressure of the political microscope scrutinizing her once again. On the other hand, if she refused she’d be letting Terry and herself down.
“What about my other cases?” She stalled for time while she considered her options.
“You mean that single employment case you’ve been milking for days?”
Regan laughed despite herself. “Okay, so I’m procrastinating.”
Terry shrugged. His expression grew more serious. “I’ll be honest with you, Regan. This is going to be a messy, high-profile case, and the outcome will affect the city’s budget in a big way.”
“All the more reason to give it to someone else.”
He shook his head. “No, I think you need to do this.”
She had to admit, he was probably right. She was going through her assignments with less and less enthusiasm. But that didn’t mean she was ready to take full responsibility for a case that could burn the city. There could also be ramifications for the police department, with a review of their policies and procedures, not to mention the bad press. And last, but certainly not least, the officer involved would have to live through the events at the center of the lawsuit over and over again until it was settled. Regan had heard horror stories from the parents and friends of her last client. The thought of going there again made her nauseous.
She took a deep breath to steady her nerves. “All right. I’ll do it. I appreciate your confidence, and I’ll try not to let you down.” Collecting her scattered thoughts, she asked, “What’s our turnaround time?”
“Two weeks from today.”
“Two weeks? You’re kidding, right?”
“I’m afraid not. Here’s the file.” He handed her a six-inch-thick accordion folder. “Try to skim the highlights as soon as possible. We’ll be meeting with the officer at two o’clock tomorrow. After that we’ll develop a strategy.”
“Will do.” Regan tried to sound enthusiastic as she scooped the folder under her arm and exited Terry’s office.
Even before opening the file, she could feel its contents dredging up thoughts and emotions she didn’t want to face. As she walked back to her desk, the weighty documents she carried might as well have been a ball and chain around her neck.
Chapter Three
Preparing for her second day back at work, Syd pulled on her tailored uniform pants and was once again amazed at her rush of energy. She’d been wearing this outfit for work every day for twelve years, but the transformation never ceased to excite her as she slid into character. It was like a Jekyll and Hyde mutation. Maybe the fabric came with testosterone woven in. Out of uniform she was just an ordinary person who wanted the same things every other femme wanted, to meet the right woman and live a normal, happy life. But once that uniform molded itself to her body, her breasts cupped by the snug flack vest, her hips weighted by the powerful tools of her trade, and her crotch constantly massaged by the rough wool-cotton blend pants, she morphed into an adrenaline-powered, sex-seeking junkie. It had been like that her entire police career.
Women had always been drawn to her, and finding willing partners was never an issue, but since the shooting, her appetite had grown out of control. Her therapist had implied that the only way Syd would allow herself to feel anything right now was through physical intimacy. Therapists didn’t know everything, and Syd certainly hadn’t been completely forthcoming about the extent of her escapades since the shooting. After all, the shrink’s job was to evaluate her and get her back to work, and Syd was helping the process along. Besides she was probably just bored and trying to fill time until she was back on the street.
And that day had finally come. As she smoothed the creases of her freshly pressed uniform, she released a grateful breath and looked around her third-floor loft. Light flooded in from all sides and gave the space an openness and freedom that defined her. Soon everything would return to normal. Work was almost like old times already and soon she’d have women lining up at her door again. The thought simultaneously pleased and saddened her. Was that really what she wanted or had it simply become her default way of life? She discounted the latter as premature performance anxiety, but her mind flashed to the b
londe from the elevator and a tinge of uncertainty crept back in. She shook the vision from her mind, locked the loft door, and maneuvered through the noisy furniture-market crowd on her short walk to work.
By midmorning she’d already answered three alarm calls, taken two burglary reports, and was assisting Gil Brady with a personal-injury vehicle accident. They compared notes while sipping coffee at Mitzi’s, a diner on the outskirts of town that catered mostly to police, EMT, and fire patrons, which suited the public servants just fine. An uninterrupted meal or cup of coffee wasn’t the normal fare for folks in uniform.
As Gil traced out the accident diagram from a template, Syd noted his studious attention to detail. His tanned complexion was sprinkled with white crow’s feet at the corners of his eyes and worry lines across his forehead from frequent frowning. As he worked, he occasionally rubbed his bony hand over the stubble cropping up on his shaved head. He divided his attention between the paperwork in front of him, the front door, and the other patrons in the diner. Bluish gray eyes took in every movement and returned to his task only in short spurts. Syd wondered how many people this seemingly mild-mannered young man had killed during his tour in Iraq and if those deaths tormented him as much as her shooting did.
“What’re you staring at me for?” Gil asked in his slow Southern twang without looking up from his drawing.
“How did you know I was staring?”
“I can feel it. Am I doing something wrong?” His expression showed an eagerness to please.
“No, you’re doing a great job. I was just wondering—”
“About the war.” The look in his eyes changed from open and receptive to pained and distant.
“I’m sorry. It’s obvious you don’t want to talk about it.” Syd didn’t want to cause any discomfort but obviously had.
Gil pushed the diagram toward her and slid his pen into the tiny cutout on the flap of his left shirt pocket. “It’s okay. I’d rather folks ask than just stare at me and wonder, or act like it never happened. You’ve killed somebody. You know what it’s like.”
Syd flinched at the word. It was the first time she’d heard the K-word stated so bluntly out loud. During the investigation her taking of a life was referred to as neutralizing the suspect, bringing him down, stopping the advance, terminating the threat, anything but killing. “Yeah,” was all she could say.
“Funny how they dress up the truth with administrative jargon and flowery bullshit, huh? In wartime we depersonalize the victims even more. We call them targets, bogies, incoming, bad guys, and a bunch of other names I won’t repeat.”
“How many people did you—”
“Kill?”
Syd nodded without making eye contact.
“I don’t really know. When you’re using rockets and tanks, it’s hard to keep a head count. There were only a couple in one-on-one situations.” Gil’s drawl slowed even more. “And before you ask, yeah, I think about them daily. I see their faces every night and wonder about their families. You know what I mean.”
Syd nodded. Her eyes stung with unshed tears. “Yeah, it feels like somebody else fired those shots. It makes me wonder sometimes what kind of person I really am.”
Gil reached across the table as if he was going to touch her hand but withdrew. “You’re a fine person. If you weren’t, it wouldn’t bother you. I know guys who never give killing a second thought. It’s like any other job. But those are guys with no conscience. You don’t strike me as that type.”
“Thanks,” Syd replied, “you don’t either.” She felt a sense of validation that she hadn’t experienced since the shooting. Finally someone understood the intangible nuances she could never explain to her therapist.
Gil’s cheeks flushed slightly and he nodded at the accident diagram. “That look okay?”
“Yeah. Good job.” Syd gathered their paperwork together, preparing to leave, but Gil didn’t move. “You ready?”
“I was wondering if I could ask you a question.” His gaze shifted uncomfortably around the room but settled on Syd.
“After what we’ve just talked about, you can ask me anything.”
“It’s about my wife.”
Syd’s heart dropped. She had hoped to return Gil’s favor. “I’m not sure I’m the best person to give advice on stuff like that, Gil. My track record’s not very good.”
“But you’re a woman. That’s what I need, a woman’s perspective.”
She wondered how far her confidences with her new squad mate should go and then decided if they were to be true friends, she had to put it out there. “But I’m not the best person to ask about men and women because—”
“I know you’re gay, if that’s what you’re hedging about, and it doesn’t matter. You’re still a woman.”
Syd leaned back in her seat. The air between them seemed more casual, like just two friends talking. “I’ll do my best.”
“I think Priscilla is cheating on me.” The statement hung in the air like a foul odor.
“Oh.” Syd waited for the rest of the story.
“We got married in Iraq just before we came home. It’s only been nine months. How can you get tired of somebody in nine months?”
Syd was definitely not the right person to answer that question. She’d been known to get tired of a woman in less than nine minutes. “How long have you known your wife?”
“A little over a year. We served as MPs together. I fell for her right away. She was the kind of woman I always dreamed of. Tall, gorgeous, great body. She goes after what she wants, and she wanted me. At least for a while.”
The description made Syd smile. That was exactly the kind of woman she dreamed of too. Her mind drifted to Miss Friday Night Snob. Syd wondered if she was the assertive type who went after what she wanted. Did she even know what that was? She returned to Gil’s dilemma. A year wasn’t long to know someone, and getting married after such a short period seemed unwise, but stranger things happened in the pressurized military bubble of wartime Iraq.
“What makes you think she’s cheating?”
Gil hung his head. “She doesn’t want to make love much any more.”
Bad sign, Syd thought, really bad sign. She knew the symptoms and causes of waning sexual interest all too well. But she couldn’t bring herself to hurt him. “Maybe she’s just going through an adjustment period, too. It hasn’t been that long since you got back. I can’t imagine what that was like for either of you. Add to that the guilt of leaving your friends back there and the pressures of conforming to ‘normal’ society again. It must be really stressful.”
“She has been upset about something lately but she won’t talk about it. She can’t find a job and doesn’t want to go into civilian law enforcement. She’d be great at it.”
Syd noticed the softness in Gil’s voice as he talked about his wife. He obviously loved her and wanted their marriage to work. “Why don’t you just give her some time? Be patient, don’t push for sex. Let her come to you when she’s ready.”
“That’s so hard to do.” Gil pushed his coffee cup aside and stood to leave. “She’s so damn hot. Even you’d like her.”
Syd took the good-hearted ribbing as his way of getting back into work mode. As she placed the accident report in her clipboard, communications relayed a message for her to call the city attorney’s office. She waved good-bye to Gil and dialed the number on her cell phone, wondering what person with friends in high places she’d pissed off now. The receptionist who answered was unable to provide much information. She merely said that Syd should attend a meeting at two o’clock in the city attorney’s conference room on the second floor.
As she hung up, Syd mentally reviewed the cases she’d made recently and decided this had to be a wrap-up of the shooting investigation. She went through the rest of the morning excited that soon the entire incident would be behind her.
*
Regan retrieved her next Diet Coke from the mini-refrigerator beside the desk in her small office. She popped t
he tab and took the first fizzing sip. Her eyes were burning and tired, and it was only noon. She’d started reading the new civil-case file Terry gave her yesterday, reviewing witness statements and mapping out a timeline of the actual shooting. The cleaning crew had finally run her out of the building after midnight.
When she got home sleep proved impossible. The facts of the new case had mingled with the old one from Nashville, keeping her tossing and turning. Her last client was so traumatized by the act of killing another human being that he’d found it impossible to cope. He had horrible nightmares, flashbacks, bouts of drinking, and blackouts from booze and drugs in the final days before he took his own life to escape the pain. Regan had failed the young officer, the City of Nashville, and her employer. She’d allowed her personal turmoil to take priority over her job. She’d had the case for only a week when Martha announced that she wanted out of their relationship.
At first Regan didn’t take her seriously. Martha often vied for her attention when a big trial occupied most of her time. But this time she was serious.
“I’m not in love with you anymore,” she’d informed Regan with the precision of a practiced response. “I’m not happy and haven’t been for a long time. And don’t try to talk me out of it with your legalese.It won’t work.” Then the final blow. “I’ve found someone else and I want out.”
She moved out the next day, and Regan felt like she’d walked headlong into a brick wall. Her mind went completely blank, all function overtaken by the emotional swell inside. She couldn’t argue. She was in such a state of shock that she didn’t even cry for several days. But when she did, the crying didn’t stop for weeks. By then it was too late. Martha had moved in with her new girlfriend and Regan was left to thrash about in their half-furnished home, wondering what had happened to her once-happy life.
