At Rope's End (A Dr. James Verraday Mystery #1)(37)

“I was in my senior year of high school. It was a quarter after seven in the morning. I’d just gotten up. I had this biology assignment with a question about pathogens that I was having trouble with. Since my mom’s a nurse, I knew she’d know that answer, so I was planning to ask her about it. But when I came out of my room, I looked down the hall and saw that her eyes were shiny, like she’d been crying. She was watching CNN, which I remember thinking was unusual, because my mother never watched television in the morning. When she saw me, she said, ‘Somebody flew two jets into the World Trade Center. And one of the towers just came down.’ She was wearing her green scrubs, getting ready to start her shift at the hospital. She told me that we should both go to the Red Cross later that day and donate blood because they were going to need it. I remember seeing the second tower coming down. I’ll never forget that feeling.”

“See? That’s what I’m talking about,” said Verraday. “An event like that is so momentous that our mind freezes everything in time around it. Just like you remember that your mom was wearing her green scrubs and that you had a biology assignment. That’s how I know I saw what I saw when my mom died. Especially because the police pressured me so hard to change my story. Even at that age, it struck me as strange that they kept badgering me, so it kind of made me work it through in my mind.”

“Is that when you became interested in memory?”

“I never thought about it before. But I guess so. Memory and the truth. And fairness. Or all of it. I mean, it’s not like I had any idea what a psychologist was when I was eight. But I do know that it was the first time in my life that I’d felt outrage about being treated unfairly and being browbeaten. Up until then, I was like most boys. I idolized cops. They were the heroes from movies and TV shows, keeping us safe and putting all the ‘bad guys’ in jail, right? Even after Robson hit our car, I didn’t think of it at first as anything but a tragic accident. Not until he ran away and left us there to die, even when I called after him to help. Is that mentioned anywhere in the official files? That I called to him for help and that he ignored me?”

“No. Not exactly, at least. In the internal affairs report, he stated that he left the scene because he was in shock. He lived just a few blocks from the intersection. He said he ran home in a state of mental confusion. Claimed that it was only after he got to his house that it started to sink in what had happened. He said he poured himself a few stiff shots of whiskey to steady his nerves. Then he called nine-one-one to report the accident.”

“What do you believe?”

“I believe that Robson’s description of his own actions after the collision fits the pattern of one of the oldest DUI dodges in the book. Leaving the scene of an accident because you’re confused and in shock isn’t nearly as serious as impaired driving causing death. That one gets you jail time. So if there’s nobody around to stop them, a drunk driver can flee the scene, go home, say they had nothing before the accident and half a dozen when they got home. It means that any Breathalyzer test we give them is worthless in court. People do it all the time when they think they can get away with it.”

“So you believe me?”

“Look, I was two years old when it happened. But from what I could find out, he didn’t exactly have a stellar history on the force even before that night. Whatever anybody told you at the time, the truth is that after the accident, the department took him off the street, out of cars, and transferred him to a desk job until he retired. It’s not an admission of guilt, but let me tell you, the Seattle PD doesn’t take somebody off the street for no reason. Anyway, I’m sorry for what happened to you. It’s a terrible thing to lose a parent. And to have it covered up.”

“Well, you know how it feels.”

“That I do,” said Maclean.

The waiter glanced over in their direction. Maclean picked up on his cue.

“Want to stay for another?” she asked.

“Sure,” said Verraday, “That’d be good.”

Maclean signaled for another round of drinks. Verraday absent-mindedly tapped the rim of his glass.

“Out of curiosity, do you know Bosko?” he asked.

“Not really,” Maclean replied. “Uniform cop. Passed him a couple of times in the station. Never spoken to him. I don’t think he’ll ever make detective or sergeant. Not after what happened with you. Even if the department won’t admit it. Plus he doesn’t have the smarts to be a senior officer. But whatever his faults, he’s brave, I’ll give him that.”

“What makes you say that?”

“He saved a kid who fell into a storm sewer during a flood last spring. Went in after him without any backup or equipment. It was an extremely dangerous situation. He got a commendation for it.”

“I can never understand that about cops,” said Verraday. “I mean, some cops.”

“What?”

“The fact that they seem to like kids so much. But only until they grow up. What’s that about?”

“I can’t speak for Bosko. But cops have a protective nature. Kids are easy to protect, philosophically speaking. They’re pure and innocent. Unfortunately, by the time people grow up, you can’t be as certain of their motives any more. That’s why most of us get into this line of work. We want to be the people you once idolized, keeping everybody safe and putting all the ‘bad guys’ in jail, you know?”