Long Bright River(51)

* * *



—

    I tried hard to ignore the low noise that thrummed throughout my day, some tolling, cautionary bell. I wouldn’t listen. I wanted everything to stay as it was. I was more afraid of the truth than the lie. The truth would change the circumstances of my life. The lie was static. The lie was peaceful. I was happy with the lie.





Six months went by in this way. And then, one day in autumn, I arranged to pick up an extra shift: crowd control for a special event. But when I arrived at the station, Sergeant Reynolds, who was my supervisor at the time, informed me that my services would not, in fact, be needed. Too many people had signed up, he said. And I was still junior.

Not unhappily, I left the station. It was very pleasant outside, cool and crisp, and I decided to walk all the way from the station to Port Richmond, rather than taking the bus. I was in fine spirits. I stopped along the way and bought some flowers, which was deeply unlike me. I had never bought flowers before in my life. I felt silly, holding them—the incongruity of a uniformed police officer holding a dainty bouquet was not lost on me—and I ultimately carried them down by my side as if I were attempting to dry them as I went.



* * *



—

When I arrived at home I found the door to my house unlocked. I am fastidious about locking the door of any house I live in, having seen too many burglaries transpire through simple carelessness on the part of a homeowner, and I had already scolded Kacey once or twice for forgetting to do so herself since she moved in with me.

That day I sighed and locked the door behind me, telling myself that I would have another talk with my sister later, when suddenly I heard movements from the second floor. Kacey, I thought, should have been at work.

I still had my weapon on me, and I kept one hand near it as I ascended the stairs. In the other, I was still holding the silly bouquet.

I tried to be quiet, but the house was old, and my footsteps caused the wooden floorboards to shift and squeak. As I went, the noises upstairs increased: I heard the sound of drawers opening and closing, and then low murmuring.

I made a quick decision. I dropped the flowers. I drew my weapon.

At the top of the staircase I nudged open the door to the back bedroom with a foot, and before I could see who was on the other side of it I said, Don’t move. Put your hands up.

—What the hell, said a man I didn’t recognize.

Next to him was Kacey.

The two of them were standing side by side in the center of the bedroom, a very strange place to be standing, but I could tell by the rumpled bed that they had been on it together a moment before.

They were both fully clothed; I did not believe they’d been doing anything of an intimate nature. I had the impression, in fact, that the man was probably gay. But it was clear, from Kacey’s expression, that she was guilty of something.

—Mick, she said. Why aren’t you at work?

Slowly, I lowered my weapon.

—I should ask you the same thing, I said.

—I was wrong about my schedule. This is my friend Lou, she said, looking at the man, who raised a hand weakly.

If this was meant to mollify me, it didn’t.

For in an instant, I knew: I could easily hear, in her slow voice, and see in her flushed face the old signs that she was using.

I said nothing to her. I went instead to the dresser and began throwing open drawers. Toward the bottom, there they were: syringes, rubber tubing, lighters. Small glassine baggies with outrageous stamps. Slowly, I closed the drawer.

When I turned around again, the friend was gone, and Kacey and I were alone.





NOW





Paula is still laughing. She is wagging her head now, incredulous, disgusted.

—Tell me who, I say.

—Same cop comes around here telling girls to blow him or he’ll bring them in, she says.

Then she adds, Tell me that’s your suspect. Tell me that’s your fucking suspect. Oh my God, please tell me you guys are looking for a cop. That would be great. That would be perfect.

I speak more quickly than I can think. A deep and uneasy confusion has settled onto me.

—No, I say. Just someone we want to talk to.

Paula’s expression changes.

—Do you think I’m stupid, she says, quietly. Do you think I’m that fucking dumb.

She turns and walks away, hobbling.

—What does he look like? I call after her.

Paula’s back is turned now, but I can still hear what she’s saying.

—Don’t bring me into this, she says again. She whips around, briefly, a dangerous look in her eyes.

She continues on her way.

—Paula, I call. Paula, will you make a report?

She laughs. No fucking way, she says, her back to me, getting smaller as she walks. Yeah, that’s all I need. Make a report. Get on every cop’s shit list in this godforsaken city.

She disappears around a corner. And for the first time in my career as a police officer—a profession of which I have always been proud—a sickening feeling descends upon me: that I’m on the wrong side of something important.





I call Truman on my way back to the station. I want his advice. I want to know, too, if he knows anything about what Paula said.

—You okay? he says, before anything else.