The Right Wrong Thing

by Ellen Kirschman

  THE RIGHT WRONG THING

  Also by Ellen Kirschman

  Fiction: Dot Meyerhoff Series

  Burying Ben

  Nonfiction:

  Counseling Cops: What Clinicians Need to Know (with Mark Kamena and Joel Fay, 2014)

  I Love a Cop: What Police Families Need to Know (first edition 1997, revised edition 2007)

  I Love a Fire Fighter: What The Family Needs to Know (2004)

  THE RIGHT WRONG THING

  A Dot Meyerhoff Mystery

  ELLEN KIRSCHMAN

  Copyright © 2015 by Ellen Kirschman

  FIRST EDITION

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without permission in writing from the publisher, except by a reviewer who may quote brief passages in a review.

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, organizations, places, and incidents either are the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, businesses, locales, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  ISBN: 978-1-60809-154-6

  Published in the United States of America by Oceanview Publishing Longboat Key, Florida

  www.oceanviewpub.com

  10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

  PRINTED IN THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA

  To the men and women of law enforcement Thank you for your service

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  I was a police psychologist long before I started writing mysteries. Police work is a tough calling. I have counseled cops who feel guilty for something they’ve done and cops who feel guilty for something they didn’t do. I’m indebted to every one of them for sharing their stories and inspiring me to write.

  I am grateful to have so many friends, cops, and colleagues to cheer me on. Special thanks go to Sheriff’s Deputy Harriet Fox, police psychologists Phil Trompetter, Joel Fay, and Mark Kamena, my colleagues at the Psychological Services Section of the International Association of Chiefs of Police, and the dedicated staff at the First Responder Support Network (FRSN). FRSN is truly a haven for first responders with post-traumatic stress injuries.

  My agent, Cynthia Zigmund of Second City Publishing, has been a calm and reassuring presence. Without her keen eye and writerly guidance, this book would still be looking for a home. Pat and Bob Gussin of Oceanview Publishing have welcomed me with enthusiasm. I know I am in good hands. My husband, Steve Johnson, reads my work and manages my life. Without him, there would be no laughter, no laundry, and no lunch.

  THE RIGHT WRONG THING

  PROLOGUE

  Randy Alderson Spelling looks more like a girl than a woman. So tiny she’s nearly lost in the cushions of my office couch. Her legs jut out over the floor until she scoots forward and places her feet squarely on the ground, leaving a foot of space behind her. She waits for me to start, all the while pulling on her fingers, cracking each tiny knuckle. I’m the last hurdle between her and the job she covets—police officer for the Kenilworth Police Department. She’s aced the entire gamut of challenges: a background check that combed over all twenty-four years of her life; a medical examination; tests of reading, writing, and judgment; officer interviews; agility tests; and an interview with Acting Chief Jay Pence. Now she’s down to me, the department psychologist. I’m looking into the nooks and crannies of her emotional stability now that she’s received a conditional offer of employment from Pence; conditional, that is, upon my finding her free of any psychological conditions that would prevent her from fulfilling the role of police officer.

  Pence wants this woman on the force. He’s made that clear with his slightly overreaching and out-of-character enthusiasm. The truth is, women officers haven’t done well at KPD. None of the four women who were hired before my time worked out. One got pregnant and never returned from maternity leave. Another woman’s husband was promoted and the family moved to New York. A third decided to go to law school, and the fourth was flushed out of the field-training program after she totaled a police car. Pence needs women on the force. KPD is the only department in the county with no female officers, something the female-majority city council finds unacceptable. And since he’s in contention for the chief’s job, making nice with the city council is not just preferable, it’s a necessity.

  All of which is his problem, not mine. My job is to make sure this candidate has what it takes, psychologically, to be a cop, and given the results of her psych tests, she seems to fill the bill. All she needs now is to complete my interview and she’s on her way to the police academy. At this point, it would be rare for her or any applicant to flunk the interview process, but it happens. The person and the paper avatar are sometimes not the same, which is why state law requires me to do interviews and not just rely on the results of the candidate’s written tests.

  When Randy showed up a week ago to take the battery of tests I administer, she had long silky hair. Today her hair is cut into a short spiky cap, pixie style with little points and wisps. No fuss, no muss, nothing for a bad guy to grab. I take this new hairstyle as an expression of her confidence that I’m going to give her a green light. And, as far as I can see, she’s probably right. She seems like an excellent candidate. Psychologically stable, good impulse control, no problems with anger, not excessively vulnerable to stress or substance abuse, extraverted, and optimistic. Born into a law enforcement family, she was a star athlete in high school, completed college with a 3.0 and recently married her high school sweetheart who is a sheriff’s deputy.

  We go through the usual questions about why she wants to be a cop, and I get the usual answers—to make a difference in her community and to help people.

  “And your family? How do they feel about you being a police officer?”

  “They’re all in law enforcement, except my mom. She worries about me, of course. But growing up with my brothers, she knows I can take care of myself.”

  “Tough being the little sister?” I ask.

  “A little.”

  I take her candor as a sign that she isn’t afraid to admit to some weakness which suggests that she might be willing to get help if she ever needs it and—being a cop—it’s fairly certain that she will. Sometime, somewhere, she’ll run into something or someone that will give her nightmares. The sooner she talks about it, the better off she’ll be.

  “You know what they say, good things come in little packages, so does poison.” She smiles and then winces when she realizes that I’m as short as she is, and I’m not laughing. “What I mean is I gave it back as good as they gave it, which is why I know I can handle a bad guy. Not that I’d be aggressive, hit somebody for no reason or anything like that.” I let her trip over her own words for another minute to see where this leads and when she stops digging herself into a hole I move to my next question.

  “Your husband is a deputy sheriff. How does he feel about you becoming a cop?”

  She looks to the ceiling, gathering her thoughts, careful to take this question more seriously. She’s worried that I’ve taken offense at her spontaneous little joke. To the contrary, I’m finding her rather delightful, although I can’t show it.

  “We talked about it for a long time. He knows it’s what I’ve wanted to do forever. I mean, my father and brothers are all in law enforcement. How could I not be? What we agreed was that we wouldn’t work in the same department, that we’d try to work similar shifts so we could see each other more, and that we wouldn’t bring work home. Think that makes sense, Doc?”

  I’m tempted to dig deeper, probe the concern behind her question. Police marriages are complicated—too many variables. It works well for some and for
others it’s double trouble, two overly stressed people living life in a fishbowl.

  Anyhow, this isn’t therapy, this is a pre-employment screening interview, and I have strict guidelines to follow. Any conversation beyond the purpose of determining her stability is strictly off limits.

  “I think we’ll be okay. I know we will. Rich and I have known each other since high school. We read each other like books. I helped him study when he was going through the academy: I made flash cards, tested him on his ten codes. I even let him put me in handcuffs.” A pink flush brightens her face. Some association between handcuffs and sex or domestic abuse. She shifts a little further forward. “Now he can help me. We’re a team.”

  Mark and I were a team once. We studied together, wrote together, taught together, and practiced together. The only thing he did without me was fall in love with his psychology intern. And then he divorced me, married her, and had the child he never wanted us to have together. I shake my head to loosen the clutch of old memories.

  “We’re just about through. Do you have any questions for me?”

  “Did I pass?”

  “I’ll have my report in forty-eight hours. As you know, I have no decision-making authority—all I do is recommend, thumbs up or thumbs down. The final decision belongs to Acting Chief Pence.” Her shoulders sag a little at yet another impediment. “But you’ll be relieved to know that I’m going to give you a thumbs up. Congratulations.”

  “Really?”

  “Yes, really.”

  She closes her fist, pumps her arm in the air and whispers “yes” dragging the esses out in a long hiss. I imagine she’d rather jump up and shout, but given the formality of the situation she shows admirable restraint and an appropriate reading of the social context.

  I stand. She stands. We shake hands. “You have no idea how much this means to me. I’ve wanted this all my life. Being a cop is my dream come true.” She shakes my hand again. “Thanks, Doctor,” she says, “I promise. You won’t be sorry.”

  CHAPTER ONE

  “The trouble with women in policing is men.” Jacqueline Reagon says this without a trace of animus in her voice. “I’ve had to compete with men at every rank right up to chief. Men only have to be as good as each other. I’ve had to be better.” The men on the city council look uncomfortable. The women are beaming. “If you select me as chief, I can assure you that the Kenilworth Police Department will be a place where competent women can succeed without hindrance or harassment. I’ve moved two organizations from cowboy cultures to community policing by rewarding interpersonal skills and problem solving, as much, if not more, than acts of physical prowess or daring, which, until I became chief, were the only activities that counted.” She speaks in a low, slow monotone, letting the impact of her words settle over the room. Even sitting down, she is taller than Jay Pence. And certainly less handsome. I wince at my own sexism, how easy it is to judge a woman on her looks, not her competence.

  “Thank you, Chief Reagon,” the mayor says. “Now we’ll have a chance to hear from Acting Chief Pence about his plans for hiring women.” The mayor smiles warmly at everyone as though hosting a party. He owns an insurance agency and, like the other men on the council, his service to the city is motivated by his business interests. The newly elected councilwomen are a different matter. They mean business and are determined to move Kenilworth out of its coddled, self-congratulatory existence into the real world, half of whom are women.

  Jay Pence walks to the front of the room as the streetlights come on, lighting the windows behind the council members’ seats. We’ve been in special session for more than two hours putting these final two candidates through their paces. It’s taken months to winnow down the list of applicants to replace former Chief Bob Baxter, the perfect narcissist cum sociopath who’s off somewhere in the Middle East making tons of money providing executive security to Arab oil magnates, unmoved by the lives he wrecked, or nearly wrecked, including mine.

  Jay Pence coughs and smiles. His teeth are unnaturally white and even. “I’ve done a great deal to rectify the embarrassment caused by my predecessor, especially in the area of bringing women into the department. I’m proud, very proud, of the fact that I hired Officer Randy Alderson Spelling. She is, as I predicted, literally sailing through field training and is almost finished with probation.”

  I went to Randy’s badge-pinning ceremony. Rich, her husband, was all thumbs trying to pin her badge on straight and she was all smiles. Same for field training: nothing but smiles and high marks from her trainers. “I love this job so much I’d do it for free,” she said, when she finished training. And then she disappeared into the night. Rookies always get the dog watch, 10:00 p.m. to 6:00 a.m. A younger psychologist might be willing and able to ride along in the middle of the night just to stay in touch with the troops, but I need my sleep.

  “I admire Chief Reagon’s persistence and know her reputation for changing organizational culture.” Pence turns and smiles in Reagon’s direction. “I am happy to say that I have encountered no resistance bringing Officer Spelling on board at Kenilworth PD. The police association was very supportive, as they are for my candidacy.” There is a smattering of applause from a group of officers in the audience.

  “Bringing women into law enforcement is a priority for me. I wrote a paper on the topic for my class at the FBI National Academy. You can read it if you want; it’s a good antidote for insomnia.” He laughs again. “It is also the subject of my thesis for my masters in public administration, when and if things slow down enough for me to complete it.”

  Jacqueline Reagon bends to her microphone. “Pardon my interrupting, but if I may, I’d like to ask Acting Chief Pence why he thinks women make good police officers?” Her question, so simple and unexpected, seems to throw Pence off. His hand moves to his silky, perfectly combed, prematurely white hair, as if to ruffle it, and then drops to his side. I prefer shaggy men, like Frank—the way his gray hair curls at the base of his neck when he needs a haircut, the brushy feel of his beard on my face. I feel a rising flush, perimenopause or flashes of desire—it’s hard to tell anymore.

  “Women are good with children. They have good communication skills. They have a natural affinity for caretaking that is very helpful with domestic violence victims.”

  Chief Reagon rises from her seat. She is plain as a nun in her navy suit and white nylon shell. The only jewelry she wears is a silver watch. “I congratulate Chief Pence for trying to do the right thing, although, in my opinion, hiring one woman doesn’t come close to what this department requires. And, in fact, it puts a great deal of pressure on that particular woman. It’s critical to have a deep understanding of the contributions women can make to law enforcement. Without it, we risk exploiting a social trend for our own means.” Jay Pence’s cheeks are tinged with red. Despite her diplomatic use of the editorial “we,” Chief Reagon is looking directly at him.

  “As Chief Pence said, women have excellent communication skills. Police work involves physical aggression only ten percent of the time.” She shifts her body toward the council. “Women are more likely to defuse an explosive situation by talking someone down and less likely to act aggressively when they are challenged. This is not to say women cannot or will not respond aggressively when needed. They will go to the mat to protect their safety, or the safety of others. Whereas male officers are more likely to respond aggressively because of their egos or their need to exercise control.”

  Pence is still standing, but all eyes are on Chief Reagon.

  “Women are also at an advantage in undercover work, because they are unexpected. And research suggests they may be more stress resistant because they will seek help in a timely fashion and are less prone to alcoholism.”

  She sits down and then immediately stands back up.

  “Law enforcement is and will remain a male-dominated profession for years to come. If women are to become a meaningful statistical presence in law enforcement, rather than tokens, special con
sideration must be paid to their recruitment and retention, including maternity policies, of which I can find none in the general orders. If Kenilworth is ready—and I think it is judging from the support on the council—then there is no better way to recruit women to the work force than to have a woman as top cop showing, in a highly visible manner, that women have a future in the Kenilworth Police Department and a leader who has walked in their shoes.”

  A week later, an announcement appears in the newspaper and on the bulletin board outside the briefing room. “Kenilworth Police welcomes its first ever female police chief. Her tenure to begin the first week of October.” The following day, the chief’s secretary removes a handmade sign pinned to the new chief’s office door. Someone has blown up the announcement of her appointment. Written across it in large red letters is the message “Welcome C-U-N-T.”

  * * *

  Within a week, Jay Pence is back in his old captain’s office. I can smell fresh paint as soon as I turn the corner. Jay and his wife have apparently come in over the weekend and redecorated. I wonder if his new decorating theme is masking a grand sulk. On the other hand, he has suffered a huge disappointment and public humiliation. So what if he pours his feelings into a can of paint? He deserves to comfort himself however he can.

  Pence looks up from his desk and sees me standing in the doorway. “Looks good, doesn’t it? The wife helped me. She’s got the touch. What can I do for you?”

  “How are you doing?”

  “Great.”

  He doesn’t ask me in. I put my briefcase on the floor. “Mind if I sit?”

  “Help yourself.”

  “I know you had your sights set on being chief. You’ve worked really hard for the position.”

  “The council made its decision. I can live with it. If I can’t, I can always apply to be chief somewhere else. I’ve worked for Kenilworth PD my whole career. Always planned to retire from here. But if the atmosphere changes, I’ll reconsider my options.”