“You can call whoever it is back in twenty minutes, maybe thirty.” He starts to undress, hooking his denim shirt over the back of a chair. I have another undulation and head for my closet when my cell phone goes off again. Frank scowls and gets into bed.
“Do what you have to do,” he says.
I know what he’s thinking. The closer we get, the more he expects that we will be first in each other’s lives. I, on the other hand, am not so sure. I answer the phone, expecting to hear Raylene’s voice. This time it’s Chief Reagon.
“Sorry to bother you at home so late. I need you to come to headquarters right away. There’s been an incident involving Randy Spelling. It’s a bad one.”
* * *
TV trucks from five stations are parked at odd angles in front of the police station as though someone had thrown them against the curb. Cop cars are pulling in and out of the parking lot. I edge, head down, through the crowded lobby to the elevator and push the button. Someone grabs my arm and asks me who I am. After the headlines around Ben Gomez’ suicide, I can’t believe there’s a local reporter who doesn’t know me.
“I’m Jack Shiller, new guy with the Kenilworth Daily. Someone said you’re the department psychologist. Are you here to interview the officer who did the shooting?” My heart stops and then races.
“I don’t know. I’ve been asked to come in because there’s been an emergency.”
“Have you treated this officer for psychological problems before this shooting?”
“I can’t talk about my work here. And I’ve no idea what’s just happened.” I swear I’m going to pay for an upgrade to the ancient elevator myself if it doesn’t get here in another minute. I could take the stairs, but it means pushing back through the crowd and being accosted by more reporters.
“So you don’t know what happened?”
“No, I don’t.” I can see he’s about to tell me when the elevator stops with a bounce. I slip in before the creaky doors grind fully open.
What’s-his-name sticks his arm through the door and hands me his business card. “I can wait until you’re done.” I back against the rear of the elevator and will the doors to shut.
* * *
Randy is sitting on the floor of the conference room, wedged behind a rolling metal cabinet, her knees pulled up against her chest. The minute she sees me she scrambles to her feet. She is in uniform. There are dark stains on the front of her shirt.
“Get me out of here. Please. Everybody’s staring at me.”
“Are you hurt?”
“I need a shower. But they won’t let me. They’re afraid I’m going to wash off the evidence. Said I needed a female escort in the locker room, and the only woman in the building is the chief. No way I’m going to undress in front of her.”
I pick up the phone, dial the chief’s extension, and offer to be Randy’s escort. Five minutes later I’m in the women’s locker room, stuffing Randy’s blood-stained uniform into a plastic evidence bag and listening to the shower run. She exits, wrapped in a long white towel, her hair plastered to her head. She walks past me into the dressing room. I can hear the metal sound of her locker door opening. I stay in the bathroom, wanting to give her some privacy while she dresses. Whatever’s happened is bad enough that her entire life is about to be lived in a fishbowl. I know what it’s like to open the newspaper and see your name and photo on the first page and read about, not yourself, but a one-dimensional stranger created by some reporter who barely knows you.
The door to her locker slams closed. Then I hear her kicking the locker door with such ferocity that I’m afraid she’s going to break her foot. I walk into the room as she sinks to a wooden bench, head in hands, her tears dripping on the tile floor. I sit next to her.
“What’s happened, Randy? Talk to me.”
“It was a girl. I told her to stop, but she just kept moving around, digging in her car for something. Her car was jammed with stuff, like she was living in it. I told her, put your hands where I can see them. I asked her over and over, and she just kept digging like she didn’t hear me. And then when she got out of the car she had this metal thing in her hand. I thought it was a gun.” She balls her fists against her forehead. “I shot her. I don’t even know her name and I killed her.” Her sobs bounce off the tiled walls. I put my hand on her back. “I want to go home,” she says. “I want Rich.”
“Not yet,” I say. “The chief is waiting for you in her office.”
* * *
DA Allen Herter and the chief are sitting among her still-unpacked boxes. I tell Randy to wait outside for a minute, I want to talk to the chief first. Herter is a small man with a rodent-like face and pale, thinning hair. His skin never sees the light of day. It strikes me as unusual that he is doing this interview himself, rather than sending one of his minions.
“Randy’s exhausted. She needs to go home, see her husband, get some sleep. Is it possible to postpone this interview?”
“I appreciate that,” Herter says, “but I need to speak with her now. It won’t take long.”
“You’ll get more accurate information from her when she’s rested. Sleep promotes memory consolidation. Better recall.”
Herter squints at me. “This is not an inquisition, Doctor. The more information I have now, while the shooting is fresh in her mind, the better it is for the officer.”
I wonder about this. The DA is an elected official. His office, and everyone who works in it, is vulnerable to the eddies and currents of county politics. There are segments of this county who are plenty mad at Herter for failing to file charges against an officer from another department who regularly brutalized members of the Vietnamese community. He’ll need their votes in the next election. It’s to his advantage to show he’s tough on cops.
I take a short step in his direction. My hands are sweating and my heart is racing again. “Current research on memory suggests that it is a mistake to interview officers immediately after a shooting. They are the worst reporters of their own experiences because they’re drunk on a cocktail of cortisol and adrenaline. They need forty-eight hours to rest, to feel safe, and as they do, bits and pieces of their experience come back to them, filling in the blanks and correcting any distortions in their recall. If you want, I can show you the research.”
“Plus, she’ll have time to concoct a better story. I don’t need a lecture, Doctor. I’ve read the research on memory.” Herter gets to his feet. I can see Randy through the open door, slumped in a chair, eyes closed, feet stretched out in front of her.
“What about the union attorney? Doesn’t Randy need her attorney?”
Herter looks at Chief Reagon as if to ask why she isn’t controlling this wacky psychologist. “I’ve asked if she wants representation,” Reagon says. “She refused.”
“Can she do that?”
“I advised against it, but yes, she can.”
Herter picks up his briefcase without looking at me. “I’ll talk to Randy in the interview room, Chief. And I’ll need a blood sample before she goes home.” He walks out to the hall and softly greets Randy by name. She opens her eyes and follows him like a beaten dog to the interview room.
* * *
After Herter leaves, the chief and I sit in silence, looking out the window behind her desk as fingers of pink push away the night sky. It’s nearly seven a.m. There’s a carafe of coffee on a small table. She pours us both a cup. Her hands are shaking. We sit for a moment sipping in unison. The coffee is lukewarm and vile.
“The victim’s name was Lakeisha Gibbs. Her driver’s license gives a residence in East Kenilworth, but it was apparent that she had been living in her vehicle. According to the information gathered thus far, Ms. Gibbs has been parked in front of someone’s home here in Kenilworth for two days. He or she got fed up and called us. We ran the plate and found the car had been reported stolen. Officer Spelling was first on scene. She woke the young woman and asked her to step out of her car, but, according to what Randy told the next officer o
n scene, Ms. Gibbs kept rummaging around for something. When she finally exited her car, she did so quickly and had something in her hand. It was metallic and shiny. Officer Spelling thought it was a gun and shot her.”
“Is she dead?”
“I’m afraid so.”
“It wasn’t a gun?”
“It was a cell phone.” The chief sighs heavily. “Lakeisha Gibbs was seventeen years old. She’s survived by her mother, grandmother, and two younger brothers. Chaplain Barnes, our volunteer police chaplain, has already notified the family. I’m going to follow up in person. I want you to come with me.”
“Me?”
“The chaplain had another call out to attend. He indicated the family might need some psychological help. They almost always do.”
* * *
No one recovers from the death of a child. They may go on with their lives and do wonderful things, but nothing sews up that hole in their heart. My job is to support the officers’ mental and psychological well-being, not to provide crisis intervention to people in the community. There are other people who can do grief counseling. I’m going to have enough on my hands just helping Randy and her husband get through this. Chief Reagon stands up. There are deep purple shadows under her eyes. I can’t imagine how hard this is for her, how alone she feels. Whatever her officers do, right or wrong, the buck stops with her.
“Ready?”
“I don’t think so. I’m exhausted, and so are you.”
“Being exhausted is a small inconvenience compared to losing a child,” she says. And as she turns her back to me, her eyes swell with tears.
* * *
We drive in silence across town to East Kenilworth to where Althea Gibbs, Lakeisha’s mother, lives. The commute traffic is beginning. Long lines of cars pile up behind stop signs, drivers tilting their commute cups to get at the last drop of coffee. The sky is gunmetal gray.
There are three patrol cars in the parking area of Ms. Gibbs’ condominium development, angled in a protective circle. Officers are leaning against their fenders, their darting eyes vigilant, watching as a growing knot of neighbors, some still in their bathrobes, gather in an empty carport. As we get out of the chief’s car, the nearest officer straightens up and mumbles a greeting.
“Good luck, Chief. The mom’s not a happy camper.”
“I wouldn’t expect her to be,” the chief says and the officer’s somber face reddens.
The woman who opens the door to the Gibbs’ apartment is older than I was expecting, slender with long gray dreadlocks caught up in a metal clip. She’s barefoot and wearing a floor-length caftan that is frayed at the hem.
The chief extends her hand. “I’m Chief Jacqueline Reagon. I’ve come here to tell you how sorry I am for your loss. I want you to know that I will personally oversee a thorough investigation, and if there’s been any wrongdoing by my department, I will see to it that the offending parties are punished.”
“Where’s your uniform?” she asks. I’m pretty certain that if I had a daughter who had just been killed, clothes would not be the first thing on my mind.
“I’m new to the position. And I have to have all my uniforms custom made. I apologize for the informality. I mean no disrespect, Ms. Gibbs.”
“Ms. Gibbs is my daughter. I’m the grandmother.” She steps back and motions us inside. “My daughter is in her bedroom. I’ll get her.” She leaves us standing at the doorway and shuffles away unsteadily, touching the walls with her fingers as though she is blind as well as brokenhearted.
The apartment is decorated in black and white. There are plastic covers on all the upholstered furniture and lampshades, and boxes of coasters on every table. Somebody worked hard for this furniture and wants it to last. Framed photos of two identical teenage boys wearing suits and ties hang on a wall surrounded by a dozen smaller photos of them playing baseball and football. On an adjacent wall, there is a prom photo of a smiling young woman, presumably Lakeisha, leaning against a young man in a tuxedo. A corsage of dried flowers dangles from the gold frame by a satin ribbon. An eating area extends from the living room and opens out onto a small balcony filled with potted plants. The dining table is set with four place mats and matching napkins. In the center of the table an arrangement of black, white, and red silk flowers nestles in a glass bowl. There are five people living in this apartment. I wonder who eats in the kitchen and how comfortable a teenage girl would be inviting friends over to watch TV and eat pizza in this pristine room. If that’s even what teenagers do these days. I have very little contact with adolescents and intend to keep it that way, although, lately, our new officers look hardly old enough to date, let alone carry weapons.
Grandmother shuffles back into the living room. She has repinned her hair and is wearing beaded sandals. She motions us to a love seat. “I told my daughter you’re here.” We sit while she leans against the back of a winged chair for support. She sways slightly. It is clearly an effort for her to hold herself upright, but she does, never taking her eyes off us, pinning us in her gaze, as if we might suddenly run off. The idea has a great deal of appeal.
A door opens and closes in the back of the apartment.
“My grandsons. Lakeisha’s brothers. I told them to stay in their room.” It is the first any of us have mentioned Lakeisha by name.
Another door opens and closes, followed by footfalls in the hall. Ms. Gibbs, dressed, accidentally or intentionally, in black and white to match her color scheme, comes into the room. She is a tall woman, though not as tall as the chief, well endowed with rounded hips. Her dark skin is smooth and polished. Lips and nails painted a deep, glossy red. It is obvious that she’s been crying.
The chief stands and extends her hand. “I’m Chief Jacqueline Reagon. I’ve come here to tell you how sorry I am for your loss.” Ms. Gibbs turns and walks toward the balcony door, leaving the chief with her outstretched hand in the air. “I want you to know that I will personally oversee a thorough investigation, and if there’s been any wrongdoing by my department, I will see to it that the offending parties are punished.”
The grandmother moves forward using the backs of chairs to support herself until she stands in front of her daughter. “You’re dressed. Where are you going?”
“I don’t work, I don’t get paid.”
“You can’t go to work today. It’s not right.” The two women lock on each other’s faces.
The chief steps closer. “I’m also here to offer you the services of our department psychologist, Dr. Dot Meyerhoff, and to give you some information about the county victims’ services which are also available to you at no cost.”
“It’s not right that my daughter’s dead, either. But that don’t pay the rent.”
“Is there someone I can call for you?” The chief is moving between them. I start to wonder if I should get one of the officers standing outside to come in and assist her.
“Ms. Gibbs,” the chief’s voice breaks into the tension. “Is there anything I can tell you about what we know so far?”
“My daughter’s dead. What else I need to know?”
“Althea. Watch your mouth.”
This is hardly the time for a fight or a lecture. I stand up and move next to the grandmother. “Is there somewhere you and I can talk while Ms. Gibbs and Chief Reagon finish their conversation?”
“Go on with the lady,” Ms. Gibbs says. “Tell her what a bad mother I am. Tell her how Lakeisha been in trouble all her life because of how I raised her up.”
Grandmother whirls around. The metal clip falls out of her hair and skitters across the bare wood floor. “You’re the one who told her to get out. You’re the one who said you had no time to be raising another child.”
“Lakeisha’s pregnant? Was pregnant?” My voice pitches an octave over normal.
“That’s why she was out there living in a car,” the grandmother says, looking at her daughter, not at me.
Ms. Gibbs takes two steps toward her mother at the same moment Chief Reagon moves
sideways, placing herself between the two.
“Please,” she says. “Remain calm. You’re in shock, both of you. You’re going to need each other for support.”
Ms. Gibbs cocks her head. “I been supporting her ass for years. She got all those degrees and can’t make a dime. Been mooching off me forever. And I got, had…” She looks at the chief, “three kids to support.”
Grandmother sinks to the couch, one hand over her heart.
“Now what? You going to faint? My mother’s a drama queen. She’s gonna say different, but I’ll tell you what happened. I didn’t kick Lakeisha out—she stormed out of here, took my car and left me with no transportation.” She puts her hands on her hips as if defying us to dispute that being shot to death isn’t justified punishment for getting pregnant out of wedlock and taking your mother’s car.
Chief Reagon continues unfazed. “When the reality of Lakeisha’s death sets in, you may want or need some support.”
“I need to go. I can’t miss my ride.” Ms. Gibbs picks up a large black patent leather bag, heads for the door, opens it, turns around, and walks back into the room. The two officers standing outside look at us, waiting for a signal from the chief to come in and help.
“I know what’s she’s going to do,” Ms. Gibbs says. “She’s going to tell you all kinda lies about me. Ask her what kind of mother she was. A good mother puts food on the table. Takes her kids to the doctor. Gets their teeth fixed. Puts a roof over their head.” She’s standing over her mother now, her big black bag swinging from her arm, her voice getting louder with every accusation. “You dragged me all over the place. Left me in libraries while you run with your friends. Reading about children ain’t the same as raising them.”
“All right, now. That’s enough. Please stop.” The chief moves in front, blocking Ms. Gibbs. “It’s the shock and the loss. I understand how you feel. Let me call someone to be with you.”
“You don’t understand nothing about me.” Ms. Gibbs shoves her face in front of the chief. “What are you going to do? Kill me too?” She is gripping the handles of her purse in both hands as though she’s going to swing it, tears are streaking down her cheeks. “First I got no mother, now I got no daughter.” The two officers rush inside, just in time to catch her as she collapses on the floor.
The Right Wrong Thing Page 5
