Long Bright River

by Liz Moore

—We? I say.

  —I’ve got time at the moment, he says, gazing down at his brace.

  * * *

  —

  But I know he has another reason, too.

  Like me, Truman loves a good case.

  I try to follow Truman’s advice. I do.

  Ahearn doesn’t like to be bothered before roll call, but I get to work early the next morning and tap softly on his doorframe anyway.

  He looks up, annoyed at first. His face changes just slightly when he sees me. He actually smiles.

  —Officer Fitzpatrick, he says. How you feeling?

  —Great, I say. All better. I’m not sure what happened yesterday. I think I was dehydrated.

  —What’d you do, go out partying the night before?

  —Something like that, I say. I want to add, Just me and my four-year-old. But it wouldn’t surprise me if Sergeant Ahearn has forgotten I even have a son.

  —You scared me, he says. That ever happen to you before?

  —Never, I say, lying only slightly.

  —Okay, he says. He looks down at his paperwork. Then looks up again. Anything else? he says.

  —I was wondering if I could speak with you briefly, I say.

  —Real quick, he says. Roll call in five. I still have to put out a dozen fires.

  —All right, I say. The thing is.

  Suddenly I am tongue-tied. I have never known how to tell the story of Kacey—let alone quickly.

  —You know what? I’ll just send you an e-mail, I say.

  Sergeant Ahearn looks at me impassively. Whatever you like, he says. Relieved.

  Walking out of his office, I know I never will.

  * * *

  —

  All morning, I’m agitated. My brain keeps sending signals to my body: Something’s wrong. Something’s wrong. Something’s wrong. Subconsciously, I am expecting Dispatch to come through with a call about another body. And on some level, I am expecting that body to be Kacey. It is difficult, in fact, not to picture Kacey dead, when I think of her: I’ve seen her close to death so many times.

  I jump, therefore, every time a crackle comes over the radio. I turn it down slightly.

  The good news: it’s freezing outside today, and that means less activity. I stop and get a coffee from Alonzo at the corner store. I scan the Inquirer on a stand, procrastinating, but I see no sign of either Kacey or Paula.

  For some reason, Alonzo has the music off, and for a moment I let myself be lulled by the calm interior of the store: the buzzing of a fluorescent light, the hum of refrigerators, the yowling of Romero the cat.

  It’s so quiet in here that when my cell phone rings, I jump.

  I look at the caller ID before answering. It’s Truman.

  —You working? he asks me.

  —Yes.

  —Listen, he says. I’m at K and A. I’m with someone who says he knows Dock.

  I tell him I’ll be there in ten, and pray nothing comes through over Dispatch.

  * * *

  —

  When I arrive at Kensington and Allegheny, Truman is standing on the sidewalk with a coffee, looking very casual. For just a moment, I watch him. The women who pass him stop to speak to him—making him an offer, no doubt. Truman is a handsome man, and I know that people often tease him about being well liked by women—a subject he assiduously avoids speaking about—but his looks have never concerned me. I have always seen him mainly as my respected teacher. And I have always been very careful to avoid any suggestion that Truman and I were anything more than work partners. Still, anytime a male and female officer are partnered, it is inevitable that one or two sophomoric rumors will be spread about them, and I regret to say that it has been no different for the two of us, despite the fact that, for years, Truman was married. In fact, on at least one occasion, I have overheard a joke made at our expense. But largely, I believe that our professionalism has put to rest any ridiculous notions about what I will term ‘extracurricular activities.’

  I exit my vehicle and approach him. He holds up a hand in greeting. Then, wordlessly, he tilts his head toward a doorway a few storefronts down, and I follow him.

  There is no sign out front. It’s a sort of a catchall shop: everything from kitchenware to dolls to rolls of wallpaper in its front window. A little dusty placard rests askew in front of these objects. Supplies, it says, as if that explains everything. I must have passed it thousands of times, but somehow I’ve never noticed it.

  Inside the store, it’s warm. I stamp my feet on a dingy mat, ridding my shoes of the wet that has accumulated on them. The shelves in this store are so crowded with merchandise that the aisles are barely visible. At the front, behind a counter, an old man in a winter hat is reading a book. He doesn’t look up.

  —Here she is, says Truman.

  The old man slowly puts down his book. His eyes are wet and ancient. His hands shake slightly. He says nothing.

  —Kacey’s sister, says Truman. Mickey.

  The old man looks at me for a while, until I realize that it’s my uniform he’s staring at.

  —I don’t talk to the police, says the old man. He could be ninety. His voice has the faintest trace of an accent: Jamaican, maybe. Truman’s father was Jamaican. I squint at Truman.

  —Ah, come on, Mr. Wright, says Truman, cajoling. Now, you know I’m a police officer too.

  Mr. Wright gazes at Truman. But you’re different, he says, at last, to Truman.

  —Mr. Wright knows this guy Dock, Truman says to me. He knows everyone in the neighborhood.

  —Isn’t that right, Mr. Wright? says Truman, louder. The old man doesn’t look persuaded.

  I walk toward him and he sits up, defensive. I very much dislike this part: the discomfort on people’s faces as I approach.

  —Mr. Wright, I say, I wish I could have changed before I met you. I’m asking you for a personal favor, something that has nothing to do with my work. Do you know where I can find this person? Dock?

  Mr. Wright considers this for a moment.

  —Please, I say. Any information would be helpful.

  —You don’t want to find him, says Mr. Wright. He’s not a good person.

  A shiver runs down me. I don’t like the sound of that, but it doesn’t surprise me. Kacey has never exactly picked choirboys to date.

  My radio crackles suddenly and Mr. Wright tenses. I turn it down completely, praying that a priority call doesn’t come over the air.

  —Mr. Wright, I’m looking for my sister, I say. The most recent information I have is that she was dating this person. So, unfortunately, I do want to find him.

  —All right, he says. All right. He glances left and then right, as if to make sure no one is eavesdropping. Then he leans forward. Come back around two-thirty, he says. He’s usually in the back around then. Comes in to get warm.

  —In the back? I say. But Truman is already thanking Mr. Wright and dragging me out.

  —And don’t wear your uniform, says Mr. Wright.

  Truman walks me to the cruiser.

  —Who on earth, I begin, but Truman shushes me until we’re inside.

  —Drive, he says, and I pull away.

  —He’s my father’s cousin, says Truman, after a beat.

  I look at him, skeptical.

  —He is?

  —Yeah, says Truman.

  —Your father’s cousin, good old Mr. Wright?

  Truman laughs. We’re formal, he says.

  —I never knew you had a cousin who runs a store on the Ave.

  Truman shrugs. The implication is clear: There’s a lot you don’t know about me.

  We drive for a little longer. It begins to snow, and I turn the wipers on.

  —What’s in the back of the store? I say finally, and Truman exhales.

  —Between us? he says.
<
br />   —Between us.

  —He lets people shoot up back there.

  I nod. There are certainly places like that in Kensington. I know about most of them. The only reason I don’t know about this one, most likely, is that Truman has been protecting it.

  —He’s a good person, says Truman. He really is. He lost two sons to it. Now he keeps Narcan and clean needles behind the counter. He’s got a camera up front that shows him what’s going on. He’s always hobbling into the back there and rescuing some poor fool or other. Does it for free. No one pays him.

  It’s an improvised safe injection site. They’re not legal in Philly yet, though there’s talk that they will be soon. I wonder if Kacey herself has been to Mr. Wright’s.

  Jarringly, a call comes through: two officers are needed for a simple domestic assault.

  I answer.

  —Would you like to ride along? I say, when I’ve finished, but Truman shakes his head.

  —I’m on disability, remember? he says. Officially laid up. Can’t have anyone seeing me around here.

  —What will you do now?

  Truman points to a building ahead of us. I’ll jump out there by the library, he says. My car’s nearby. Call me, okay? Let me know how it goes.

  I pause.

  —You don’t want to come with me? To Mr. Wright’s store? I say.

  I suppose, on some level, I’d been relying on the idea that he would.

  Truman shakes his head. Better not, he says.

  He must notice the look of disappointment on my face, because he says, Mickey. You might need me to do something for you down the line. And you might not want this guy to recognize me.

  A fair point. I nod, and drop him at the library, as requested.

  I watch him walk away. And I think of all the things I’ve missed about him, in his absence: his generous laugh, low and contagious, ending sometimes in an s; and his steady presence when responding to calls, which steadied me in turn; and his love for his children, his pride in them, and the way he advised me on parenting concerns I had; and his concern for Thomas, for whom he brought, from time to time, thoughtful gifts, mainly books; and his privacy, and discretion, and his respect for my own in turn; and his elevated—snobbish, I told him—taste in food and drink, the wild things he bought from health food stores, kombucha, kefir, arame, goji berries; and the way he gently ribbed me about my own poor eating habits, and my stubbornness, and the way he called me ‘difficult’ and ‘strange’—two labels I wouldn’t appreciate hearing from anyone else. But from Truman I sensed an appreciation of these qualities in me; I felt understood by him in a way that, if I am being truthful, I hadn’t felt since Kacey and I were allies, in our youth.

  I still can’t get used to seeing Truman out of uniform. In his hesitating walk now, the way he scans the Avenue to his right and left, I can suddenly see the shy child he once described to me when talking about his past. I was silent until I was about twenty years old, he said to me once.

  And I said, So was I.

  The other officer, Gloria Peters, has already arrived when I get to the house where the domestic assault has been reported. For the moment, things are calm. I let Gloria talk to the complainant outside while I go inside and stand in the kitchen with the perpetrator, a drunk-looking man, white, in his thirties. He glares at me.

  —Would you like to tell me what happened here, sir? I ask him.

  I am always very polite to the people I interview, even the worst of them. Truman modeled this behavior for me, and I have found that it works well.

  But I can tell by looking at him, by the smirk on his face, that this gentleman will be intractable.

  —Nope, he says.

  He’s shirtless. His arms are folded over his middle. He, too, is probably addicted to one substance or another, though his drunkenness is making it difficult to sort out what kind of cocktail he’s on.

  —You don’t want to make a statement? I say, but he just laughs lowly. He knows the system. Knows he shouldn’t talk.

  He tries to put his hand down on the kitchen counter, wet from some earlier incident, but it slips, sending him off balance. He staggers a little, recovers.

  Are there kids? I wonder. I listen. I hear the slightest sounds of movement upstairs.

  —Do you have any children? I say, but he’s silent.

  There are not many people who alarm me, not after this many years on the job. But there is something about this person I don’t like. I avoid eye contact with him, the way I might with an aggressive dog. I don’t want him to feel cornered. I eye the drawers in the kitchen, wondering which of them contains knives that might be used as weapons. He’s drunk enough so that if he lunged, I could probably sidestep him, maybe even knock him down.

  It occurs to me, suddenly, that he looks familiar. I narrow my eyes at him, trying to remember.

  —Do I know you? I ask him.

  —I don’t know, he says. Do you?

  An odd response.

  It could just be that I’ve seen him around the neighborhood; that happens frequently. In fact, the majority of faces I see on a given shift look familiar to me.

  Gloria Peters comes back into the room, eventually, and shakes her head at me subtly. The complainant, it seems, has changed her mind, and no longer wants her husband arrested.

  —Stay there, I say to him.

  I’ve already scouted the house: there’s no back door, so he’ll have to walk past us if he tries to escape. We go into the little living room and speak quietly.

  —Anything on her face? I ask, and Gloria says, I think so. Looks red. Too early to tell. I think she’ll have some nasty bruises tomorrow, though.

  —We could take him down anyway, I say.

  But without physical evidence, and without a statement from the victim, there’s only so much we can do.

  In the end, a child tiptoes quietly down the stairs and then, seeing us, scurries away again. He’s not much older than Thomas. This is enough for us: we’ll book him. I volunteer to do it; Officer Peters can stay behind that way, make sure the child or children are taken care of, maybe get someone from Social Services to come out and conduct an interview.

  As the husband gets into my vehicle, he never shifts his gaze. He looks up at me directly, a terrible blank stare that gives me the shivers.

  All the way to the station, he’s silent. I’m used to this: usually it’s only the newcomers who talk, or rant, or cry, or bemoan the injustice of what is happening to them. Veterans of the criminal justice system know enough to shut up. What’s different about this one is the feeling of being watched, of eyes on the back of my head.

  Against my will, I glance at him, once, in the rearview mirror, trying again to figure out how I know him. And I see that he’s smiling at me. Goose bumps light up my arms and neck.

  * * *

  —

  I have to wait with him in a holding cell until he’s processed. I look at my phone and don’t speak to him. The whole time, he never averts his gaze.

  Finally, as he’s led from the cell, he speaks.

  —You know, he says, I think I do know you.

  —Do you, I say.

  —Yes, he says. I think I do.

  The officer leading him looks at me questioningly, wondering if he should yank this idiot down the hall and away from me.

  —Give me a hint, I say. I try to include in my voice a certain sardonic inflection, but I am afraid it comes out quite differently.

  The man smiles again. His name is Robert Mulvey, Jr. Earlier, he had refused to produce an ID. Officer Peters learned his name from his wife.

  For a long while, he says nothing.

  Then he says, I don’t feel like it.

  Before he’s finished speaking, the officer at his elbow jerks him violently away.

  A good officer never allows her emotions to
rule. She should strive to be as impartial as a judge, as withholding as a priest. I am disappointed, therefore, when I find it hard to shake the sense of unease that settles onto me after my encounter with Robert Mulvey, Jr. I picture his face, his very light eyes, his smile, for the rest of my shift, which is busier than I thought it would be when I saw the weather forecast.

  Normally, when it’s this cold outside, people stay home.

  After escorting Mulvey to the station, I respond to a call about a hit-and-run on Spring Garden, and there I find a wounded cyclist on the ground, a small crowd gathered around him.

  The day goes on like this. An hour before I’m due to be back at Mr. Wright’s, I intentionally slow my response to calls.

  At 2:15, I park on the street near Alonzo’s, a few blocks from Mr. Wright’s store.

  Don’t wear your uniform: Mr. Wright’s only instructions to me. But this is easier said than done. I can’t exactly go back to the station and change into my civilian attire in the middle of a shift.

  I decide, instead, to buy something to wear in the dollar store down the block.

  Before I get out of the car, I contemplate my radio and my weapon. If I bring them, what’s the point of changing into civilian clothes? If I leave the radio in the car, I’ll risk missing something important, a priority call, which could get me in serious trouble. I have never, in all my years on the force, been separated from my radio during a shift.

  In the end, I decide to leave it. For no particularly logical reason, I put it in the trunk. It just feels safer there, out of sight.

  * * *

  —

  I scan the racks in the dollar store for anything at all to buy. One aisle has giant black T-shirts hanging next to men’s black sweatpants. I’ll be swimming in them, but I buy them anyway, and walk down the block toward Alonzo’s, and ask to use the bathroom.

  —No problem, he says, as always. When I emerge from it, dressed in my dollar-store purchases, my uniform now in the bag they came in, he looks at me twice.