“So what more did you find out?”
“Not much, just that something happened because you quit and Vern kind of disappeared, or something.”
“Vern was a seasoned uniformed police officer. A Vietnam veteran. A diehard street cop who took me under his wing. He taught me everything about police work. How to handle myself when someone takes a swing at me, or if I was outnumbered. Taught me the basics of investigations, about police politics, how to make a judgment call, when to let somebody go with a warning, or when to be the meanest mother on the street.”
“You got along, then?”
“We were like brothers.”
“So what happened?”
“We’d been partnered for just over a year, in uniform and on patrol. In total command of our zone. Handling crap, the thin blue line. I loved my job and being Vern’s partner. God, it was good. Then one day we get called to an armed robbery in progress and-”
Henry rubbed his face.
“I’ve never really talked about this.”
“I know, Dad, take it easy.”
“The call went all weird on us. It ended with a person getting shot. The suspect was arrested and pleaded guilty.”
“Can you tell me who got shot, Dad?”
His father stared at him, his eyes clouded with fear.
“Can you tell me the date?” Jason pulled out his notebook.
“Put that away, son. Please and let me finish.”
“Why?”
“Please.”
Jason tucked his notebook away.
“More coffee?” the gum-chewing waitress asked.
They both accepted refills from her.
“Dad,” Jason said, after she left, “I looked through the old clippings from the time you were on the job, armed robberies, shootings. Your name never came up.”
“Not every cop who responds to a call gets named in the news reports,” Henry said. “All I can say is it was tragic.” He rubbed his lips. “It took a toll on me and it took a toll on Vern.”
“What happened?”
Henry stared into his black coffee.
“We gave so much to the job, we became the job. We put our lives on the line every time we went out. And in a split second, in a heartbeat, everything changes. Your life changes.”
“Dad, what happened?”
“Vern took things very hard. But he never said a word to me. So I never realized how things were eating him up, until that day.”
“What day?”
“The last day I saw him.”
“When was that?”
“One day, a few months later. Vern was late for work. I told the sergeant that his car had broken down, then I called Vern at his home. He answered. He was home alone. I told him I was swinging by to pick him up for our shift.”
“What did he say?”
“He said-” Henry stopped to blink several times. “He said sure, pal, come and get me. So I got to his place. Knocked. No answer, so I tried the door. It was unlocked. I got in and the first thing I heard was the loud static scratching of an old vinyl record that had played to the end. I called for Vern but heard nothing.
“The place was a mess. It smelled kind of bad, like nothing had been washed, or cleaned. Clothes were heaped, the TV was on but muted. Vern never had a hair out of place.
“I called for him again, heard a muffled sound from a bedroom. The door was half open. When I entered I saw Vern in his uniform and he had this strange look on his face. He was holding his off-duty gun, a Colt. I thought he was cleaning it or something. Vern looks at it, looks at me-says ‘sorry, Henry’-sticks the gun in his mouth, and pulls the trigger. A portion of his skull and brain matter splashed over his wedding photo on the wall.”
“Jesus.”
“I don’t recall what happened after that. They told me that when they found me, I was on the floor cradling his head in my lap.”
“Dad, I’m so sorry.”
“Maybe a piece of me died with Vern that day. I was finished as a cop.”
“Did he leave a note? What was he sorry for?”
“No note. His wife walked out on him. That call had taken a toll on Vern and me.”
“Well, what happened?”
“I don’t want to get into that. This is hard for me.”
“Sure. Sure.”
“The thing is, after I packed it in, I got a small disability pension and started drinking. I swore I never ever wanted to touch a gun again.”
“I understand.”
“Now here I am, a private detective with Krofton and he’s issued this order for all of his people to get themselves licensed to be armed. I’m having a very hard time with it all.”
“Are you going to do it?”
“It’s done.”
“It’s done? Wow. Well, think of it as a good thing, that you’re strong enough to stare this business down and put it behind you and hope you’ll never have to use the damned gun.”
Henry embraced Jason’s encouragement because it was what he needed to hear.
“That’s what I’ll do.”
Jason patted his father’s hand.
“Thank you for telling me this, Dad. I understand things now.”
“Thank you,” Henry said, “for not giving up on me, son.”
“Are you kidding? We’re partners.” Jason spun the newspaper around with his story on the front page.
“Maybe you could help me with this story, Dad?”
Henry looked at the headline and Sister Anne Braxton’s picture.
Jason ordered more coffee.
Chapter Ninteen
“ N o-I’ve-No! You’ve already connected me to that department-”
Rhonda Boland failed to get the receptionist at the insurance company to understand Brady’s situation.
“Would you just listen to me? Please. He’s just been diagnosed. Please, don’t put me on hold again, just listen, please-”
The line clicked. Elevator music flowed into her ear. “Rhinestone Cowboy.”
Rhonda squeezed the phone and stared at the mound of papers growing on her kitchen table. She’d circled the help-wanted ads in her search for a second job. They needed bartenders at the Pacific Eden Rose Hotel, which wasn’t far.
Still holding, she considered her bank statements, employee benefit handbooks, forms, and insurance policies with fine print that only a lawyer could decipher. Even her late husband’s papers were on the table. Even though there was no chance that anything regarding Jack Boland could ever help her at this stage, Rhonda had dug them out anyway.
Whatever it took to save Brady.
There was nothing in Jack’s material. She pushed it all to the extreme end of the table and saw the booklet again. The one left by Gail, the volunteer from the support group, who’d visited earlier that morning.
“The information here will help you, Rhonda. It’ll guide your decision on what and when to tell Brady,” Gail said.
Still on hold, Rhonda took in the cover again. Beams of brilliant light parted the clouds over the title: Will I Go to Heaven?
The line clicked. The receptionist had returned.
“Yes I’m still holding,” Rhonda said. “Please, let me explain, I’ve got special circumstances and need to know-”
More “Rhinestone Cowboy.”
Rhonda shut her eyes and cursed, letting anger and fear roll through her. Hope no one you love ever gets sick. She reached for the booklet, then glanced at the clock over her sink. Brady would be home from school soon.
That’s when she’d planned to tell him. Everything. She’d intended to tell him the moment they’d left the doctor’s office but couldn’t do it.
“So am I kinda sick, or something, Mom?” he’d asked as they walked to the car.
How do you tell your son that death is waiting for him? She couldn’t do it. Not there, in the parking lot.
“The doctor’s not sure. He needs to check some things. Want some ice cream?”
“Okay.”
Rhonda had stalled for time. Gail at the support group said it was a normal reaction, part of “the parental need to process the information.”
Oh God, Brady would be home this afternoon.
Rhonda stifled a sob, glanced at her fridge door. The story of their lives was there in a cluttered patch-work of odds and ends.