by Luis Samways
“Keep them closed, that’s it,” I heard him say.
Suddenly there was a loud bang. It sounded like a cymbal from a drum kit had gone off. I opened my eyes in shock and saw Dr. Martins standing over me, holding a cymbal. He had a smile on his face as he put his hand on the cymbal to stop its vibrating.
“Got you!” he said, trying not to laugh himself into hysterics.
“Fucking hell, what is this?” I asked as I shot up to a seated position.
He held his hands up in defense.
“Breaking the ice a little. I do it to all my newcomers. Now that you’ve heard the crashing cymbal, maybe you’ll be more relaxed in my office. Don’t worry — the cymbal is only used as an ice breaker. I won’t play the trombone in your ear or anything like that,” he said to me, placing the cymbal down on the carpet, next to his chair. He sat down and stretched his arms out wide, yawning a little as he popped his joints into place.
“I don’t get it. Why scare the shit out of me like that?” I asked, still feeling a little frustrated, but half of me was playing along with the Dr. — heck, most of me found the crashing cymbal with closed eyes trick quite funny. It was like something out of a Mr. Bean movie. And then it hit me. Am I being evaluated mentally by Boston’s Mr. Bean?
“Relax, Frank, it was a joke. Anyway, you fell for it. You were lying down on my sofa with your eyes shut, letting me take control over you. You see, Frank, that’s the problem. You let your inner voice control you as well. I’m not talking about that voice that tells you when you need to take a piss or something. I’m talking about that voice that tells you when to take a hit on the bong or whatever other drug-related business you so obviously take part in,” he said to me.
Great, I thought to myself. We have a genius in the building. What was it with this guy? First he plays a dirty practical joke on me to “break the ice,” and now he is saying that it’s my fault he brought a percussion instrument out and nearly blew my eardrums with it. Some nerve, I tell you.
“Whatever, man. Ease up a little on the whole ‘the reason you’re a fuck-up is because of this,’ spiel until later, buddy. You haven’t even lubed me up before mind-fucking me yet,” I replied.
Dr. Martins gave me a coy nod of the head and started jotting down whatever he fancied on the black notepad he had sitting on his lap. The guy was wearing flares. I had just noticed that. What the actual hell was happening to me? I was being counseled by a shrink who wore flares and possessed a drum kit in his office. I had obviously murdered someone in my past life. That’s why I was stuck solving them in this one. Either that, or I was Hitler. But I figured that I would remember being him. It would be constant déjà vu watching the History Channel.
“Look, Frank, I’m not here to ‘mind fuck’ you. If anything, I’m here to ‘mind heal’ you with my mouth,” he said.
I could feel the chuckle rising through my torso as I held in my laughter.
“Still sounds a little rape-ish to me, Doc,” I replied.
I guess Martins agreed, and gave me a wink. “I’m pulling your leg, Frank. Let’s get down to business, then. After all, the state is paying me by the hour, and we have already wasted a good half hour goofing around. But don’t you feel better? Isn’t life just that little bit less fucked up?” he asked.
Truth was, the guy was making sense. I truly did feel better, if only because I felt as if Martins was a complete quack. I thought it was borderline hilarious that the department was paying this guy a lot of money to sort me out when in reality Dr. Martins needed a lot more than therapy. I think the guy needed a damn miracle. He was just too much. Too much of a comedian for me to take him seriously from the start. But as they say, don’t judge a book by its cover. I had Martins figured out way too early. He had an ace up his sleeve, and my deuce hearts wasn’t expecting a flush.
“So, let’s start off from the beginning. How did you come about being a detective? What drove you into the field of police work?” Martins asked me.
I sat there for a while, pondering the question he had given me. The truth was, I didn’t know how to respond. Most people know why they choose certain career paths. I, on the other hand — I think I chose it because I fell into it. Looking back, I can’t remember wanting to be anything other than happy. My life goal hasn’t come true, hence why I was sitting down in a shrink’s office, but I guess I had found happiness once. Maybe twice.
“I couldn’t really answer that question without sounding like I know why I am here. Truth is, Dr. Martins, I don’t know why I do what I do — I just do it,” I replied. It was all that I could manage, giving the circumstances in which I found myself. I didn’t feel ready to put bullet points on my life. I didn’t feel ready to summarize my life in sentences. All I felt ready to do was leave, but I was trying to stick it out. I didn’t know if I was sticking it out for myself, or for my career. I didn’t even fucking know what I was doing anymore.
“Okay, Frank, don’t feel like you have to rush anything now. You are in a safe place. I just want to get down to the beginning of your problems. It says here that you suffer from a mild case of schizophrenia?”
I found myself nodding my head in shame. I didn’t know why I felt ashamed of my condition, but my usual reaction to anyone besides the voices in my head talking to me was shame. Always been that way. Shame was what I lived with day in, day out.
“That’s right. The doctors say I have a milder version of the disease. I personally think they are talking out of their trap door. I know what I have isn’t mild,” I said.
Dr. Martins nodded his head in understanding, writing some more stuff down on his notepad. I found myself drifting away and looking at the pictures on his office wall. Most of them were certificates, but one really caught my eye. It was a picture of a bloodshot eye on a poster that read, Drugs aren’t the only thing that can get you stoned. Self-pity is as powerful a drug as the next.
“Why is it that you don’t find your doctor’s diagnosis of mild schizophrenia to ring true to your feelings?”
I shrugged my shoulders.
“I don’t think I look like a mild case of anything,” I said.
The shrink nodded again and started jotting down more notes.
“If you aren’t mild as you say, then what are you?”
I took a few minutes to answer. Martins didn’t interrupt my train of thought. He knew I was opening up, or at least trying to.
“I’m nothing short of coping. Now, if that means I have mild schizophrenia, then so be it. If it means I am far from mild-mannered, then shoot me,” I said.
“You do a lot of self-diagnosis on yourself, don’t you?” Dr. Martins interjected.
“Someone has to, don’t they?” I replied.
Dr. Martins put down his pen and took a sip of his own coffee. The steam bellowed up in his face as he cracked a warm smile through the misty aroma escaping his mug.
“Well, now you’re in my care, you don’t need to find the answers, McKenzie. I’m being paid to find them for you,” he told me, putting his coffee back down.
Four
The first session lasted two hours. I didn’t want to open up anymore, so I was free to go home and sleep on my newly found mindset. I drove home in the dark. My headlights were flickering in the mist as I pulled into my apartment block. It was a quarter past eight when I got out of the car, and I could hear my bottle of Jack calling me from the refrigerator. I slammed my Ford Capri door shut and sighed as the echo of my footsteps supported the feelings rumbling in the pit of my stomach. I locked the car door and got to walking to my apartment door. The outside cold was chipping away at my facial hair, and I could feel the air biting down on my lips. I rubbed my gloved hands together for warmth as I approached the exterior door to my building. The cold wasn’t only affecting my hands; I saw slick ice forming in the entranceway to my building. I could just about see my shadow dancing in the reflection of the sheen on the ground. It was like my shadow had gone ice skating and left my body behind to deal with w
hat was on my mind.
I stepped over the icy sheet and pushed open the weathered door. It creaked in protest at my opening it, sounding rather loud in my ears as I walked through it and got into the hallway. The door gently swung shut and left me in the dark as I slowly walked up the stairs. The smell of damp hit my face as I got to my floor. The carpet that the landlord had laid out last winter now resembled a wet mat in a bathroom, soaked beyond belief, laced with dirt and hair. I casually walked up to my door and got my keys out. I fumbled for the right key and slotted it into my battered wooden door. The frame surrounding the door looked like it was warping from the cold weather. I pushed on my door, and it opened. I took a look to my right and saw the window to the outside far down the corridor. It showed the gale-force winds battering the trees outside. A bit of me felt glad to be home and not on a case.
I stepped into my apartment and let the door swing shut behind me. I bent down and switched on the portable heater that sat in the open-plan living area. It ticked and buzzed for a couple of seconds and then kicked into gear. The heat hit my feet and warmed them up. I flung my shoes off and flexed my toes as the heat hugged my feet into circulation.
“Ah, that’s the good stuff,” I said as I cracked my neck and stood there for a few more seconds.
My relaxation didn’t last long. I heard my cell go off inside my jacket.
“Goddamn it,” I said, reaching into my jacket and pulling the vibrating phone out. It buzzed in my hand as I flipped the screen and put it to my ear.
“Frank,” I muttered, still enjoying the toasty feet that I now possessed.
“Hey, Frank, it’s Shaw. You got to come down to the station. We need to talk,” I heard him say on the other end of the cell.
“Do I have to? I’ve had a long day. I just came back from the psychiatrist. Can’t you go and annoy somebody else?” There was a pause on the other end. “Anybody there?” I said in frustration.
“Just come down, Frank, you’re needed. Don’t make me go down there and drag you out myself,” Shaw said, soon hanging up.
“Great,” I sneered, flipping the screen on my phone back shut and shoving it in my inside jacket pocket. I wasn’t in the mood to do any overtime, but I knew that whatever Shaw needed from me, it must have been important. He sounded agitated on the phone, so I decided I would oblige and make my way down there. Not before having a shot or two of whiskey. That was for sure.
***
Twenty-five minutes later I was getting out of my car and being greeted by more brutal wind in my face. To say I was unhappy would be an injustice as to how angry I was. I would had been just fine drinking some whiskey and watching a movie on TV, but no, I had to come back to the department because Shaw wanted to talk. I didn’t know what he wanted to talk about, but I wasn’t paid to come in for chats — I was paid to solve crimes. And judging by the lack of information as to why he wanted to see me, I took a guess that it wasn’t work-related. Not a murder case, anyway. So I immediately felt as if my time was being wasted. It didn’t stop me from showing up, though; I was always a constant professional. You had to be if you wanted to stay employed. No use bitching and moaning about it. I was free to do so in thought, but I wasn’t going to outright tell anybody they were wasting my time. I knew Shaw wouldn’t appreciate that sort of honesty.
I strolled down the parking lot and made my way into the precinct. The lights inside dazed me a little. It took me a while to make sense of my surroundings, but soon enough my vision was back to normal. I walked down the hallway and into the main offices. There were a few late-shift workers typing away on their computers, but I wasn’t there to look at other people work. I walked up the stairwell that led to the Chief’s office and knocked on the door two times. I was on a mission, or at least it felt that way. I had a purpose – a goal on my mind. I wanted to know who was dragging me out of my home on one of the coldest nights I had ever witnessed and asking me to show up at the precinct without an explanation. I wanted to know what purpose this served other than to make me angry.
The door opened, and Shaw stood in the doorway, grim-faced. I knew it must be bad, or he wouldn’t be wearing a frown like that. I stepped in without hesitation, and he shut the door behind me. I sat down without invitation, and he did the same. We stared at each other for a while. He could see I was itching to know what was going on. I didn’t hold back on making my wishes known.
“What’s going on? Why the long face?” I asked, grabbing a lighter from my pocket and lighting a cigarette. I blew a few smoke rings and put the lighter down on Shaw’s desk. He grabbed it and lit up a cigar.
“It’s about Ricardo. He’s saying he paid you five grand to keep quiet about you lending him the gun. He’s implicating you in Larry’s murder,” Shaw finally said.
I shrugged my shoulders and took another drag of my cigarette.
“That doesn’t come as a surprise to me, boss. Guilty people usually implicate other people to soften their time in prison. You reckon it’s the first time in history somebody has implicated me in something I didn’t do?”
Shaw nodded his head and took another drag on his cigar.
“That isn’t the point, Frank. He’s implicating you, and we need to investigate it. Innocent until proven guilty.”
I scrunched my eyes a little as I tried to work out exactly what Shaw was trying to say.
“Who you referring to? Me or him?”
“Both of you. Innocent until proven guilty — it works both ways, Frank. In the meantime, though, I need to follow protocol, and that entails me suspending you from work. It’s what I’m obligated to do. I can’t have someone who is being investigated for murder working on homicide cases,” Shaw said without much sympathy.
“So that’s it, then? I’m automatically put in the same boat as him? I’m already guilty of murder?”
Shaw shook his head, this time showing me a little bit of sympathy.
“Of course not, Frank. We’ll investigate his claims and then come to a conclusion. I don’t need to tell you that if you are found guilty, then it could mean you spend time in prison,” Shaw said.
I got up from my seat and balled my fists up. I was reeling in anger. I couldn’t believe the Chief dragged me down here to tell me that I’m being investigated for the murder of one of our own. After all that B.S about me doing the right thing and not being a rat.
“This is horseshit! You told me to tell you what happened - and I did. You know where I was that night — I was with you investigating a damn sex-trafficking case. Are you just trying to make me quit? Do you want me gone or something? First you tell me to do the right thing, and now I’m being dubbed a murderer! Fuck you, Shaw,” I said, feeling the anger boil over. My veins felt as if they were about to melt away and the blood that was contained in them was going to come bursting out of every orifice and pore in my body.
“No, Frank, I don’t want you gone,” Shaw said in a calm voice, still sitting behind his desk. “I just want you to know that I believe in you. I believe that you didn’t do shit other than try to protect another officer’s ass. You did do the right thing, and I’ll go out on a limb here to declare you innocent before your peers. Just know that my word isn’t shit. We need to do an investigation, or the case on Ricardo won’t stand and we’ll be letting somebody walk. Surely you understand, don’t you?”
I sat back down after a few seconds of seething anger. I calmed myself and sighed loudly. I think Shaw could see that he had gotten through to me. Maybe he was right, but I still didn’t like the idea of being investigated for a cop killing.
“I didn’t know anything aside from the fact that he borrowed my gun. I didn’t even know he used it until I found out that ballistics had matched the bullet found in Larry’s neck to my weapon. And even then I thought that there must have been some sort of mistake. I just don’t understand how all of this happened. You’re supposed to trust your fellow cops, not suspect them of murdering people.”
Shaw nodded his head and gave me a sy
mpathetic smile.
“Everything will work out just fine, Frank. Just take some time off, get your head straight, and come back stronger. You’ll be found innocent. Of that I’m sure. Just know that we will need to do some digging, that’s all. Your life will be scrutinized by law enforcement. So just know that, okay? We’ll be checking bank records and cash deposits to match up Ricardo’s story, but obviously we won’t find any money that shouldn’t be there, will we?”
I couldn’t believe that he was straight-out asking me that question. I got back up, ready to shout at the top of my lungs, but decided to take the high ground.
“No, you won’t find any money,” I said.
“Good, now get back home and rest up. Everything should be sorted soon. In the meantime, take some time out. Visit your psychiatrist if you want to get stuff off your chest. From this point forward, you aren’t allowed any contact with anybody from the precinct. We have internal investigations running this case, and we can’t be seen talking to you. That’s why I called you and told you to come here, give you a heads-up on the situation so the investigation doesn’t catch you off guard,” Shaw said, toking on his cigar once more. “I know you’ve had a rough time, Frank. Just know that I’m here for you, okay, buddy?”
I nodded my head and shook his hand. I knew that I wouldn’t be seeing anybody from the precinct anytime soon. I was all by myself until the powers-that-be decided my fate. It didn’t exactly thrill me to think that I might go to prison, but I remember clearly thinking that I’d be fine, because I didn’t do anything wrong. I did the right thing, remember?
Five
“You can’t keep doing this to us, Frank. You can’t keep going out in the middle of the night and not returning until sunset the next day. It isn’t how marriages work. We won’t survive like this. We won’t last like this,” I heard her voice say, and then I woke up, covered in sweat, struggling to breathe.
