Long Bright River(66)
—The world is a hard place, I add, after a while.
But my words don’t seem to console him.
I am distracted from my attempts to comfort him by a feeling of deep unease that is descending upon me in response to the following question: If Simon has not been the man making visits to my home—who has been?
I’m so lost in thought that when my phone rings, I swerve, and Thomas yelps.
I answer.
—Officer Fitzpatrick? a voice says. Female, older.
—Yes, I say.
—This is Denise Chambers from the Internal Affairs division of the PPD, the person says.
—All right, I say.
—Sergeant Ahearn passed some information on to us that we’d like to investigate. We should schedule a time to meet.
* * *
—
Monday is the day we select. I am both surprised and relieved. Maybe Ahearn, against all odds, is doing the right thing.
* * *
—
At home, I set Thomas up at the TV and then I run down to Mrs. Mahon’s front door. I knock.
When she answers, she is blinking, as if she has just woken up from a nap.
—Mrs. Mahon, I say. I was wondering. Can you tell me any more information about the man who’s been stopping by for us?
—What kind of information? says Mrs. Mahon.
—Well, I say. Age? Race? Height? Weight? Eye color? Hair color? Any other identifying characteristics?
Mrs. Mahon adjusts her glasses. Thinking.
—Now let’s see, she says. His age was difficult to tell. He was dressed very young, but his face looked older.
—How much older? I say.
—I’m bad at that, says Mrs. Mahon. Estimating ages. I have no idea. Thirties? Forties? He was tall, as I said. He was handsome. Well-proportioned features.
—Race? I say.
—White.
—Any facial hair? I say.
—None to speak of, says Mrs. Mahon.
—Oh, says Mrs. Mahon. He did have a sort of tattoo, I think. Something in script on his neck, just below his ear. Very tiny. I couldn’t see what it said.
—What was he wearing? I say.
—A sweatshirt, says Mrs. Mahon. The kind with a hood and a zipper.
I flinch. Many people, I remind myself, wear sweatshirts of this variety.
—Both times? I say.
—I think so.
—Did the sweatshirt have any writing on it? I say.
—I can’t recall, says Mrs. Mahon.
—Are you sure? I say.
—Very sure, says Mrs. Mahon.
—All right, I say, after a while. Thank you. If you think of anything else, let me know. And Mrs. Mahon, I say.
—Yes?
—If he ever comes back. Have him leave a message. And please call me right away.
Mrs. Mahon looks at me, assessing things. I worry that she’s going to be put out by these requests. She doesn’t, after all, want ‘trouble’—she has always made sure to emphasize this to me.
But all she says is, I’ll do that.
Then, slowly, she closes the door.
The Roundhouse isn’t the official name of the Philadelphia Police Department’s headquarters, but it’s the only thing I’ve ever heard it called.
The building is, of course, round in places, and Brutalist in style, and constructed of a yellowish-gray concrete that darkens in the rain. There is talk of moving out of it soon, and it makes sense to: the PPD is running out of room. The building now looks dated and severe. But I can’t imagine the Roundhouse not being the home of the PPD, just as I can’t imagine the Tracks not being the home of the people who frequent them. As of last week, Conrail and the city have finally begun to pave the area over. But chaos will always prevail, even when its home is taken away.
Inside, I recognize two officers in the lobby, and nod my hello. They give me strange looks: What are you doing here, they imply. I wish I hadn’t been seen. Meetings with Internal Affairs are always causes for gossip and, sometimes, for mistrust.
* * *
—
Denise Chambers is friendly, fifty-something, and plump, with gray hair and blue glasses. She welcomes me into her office and tells me to sit down across from her in a new-looking chair that positions me at child height.
—Cold enough? says Chambers, nodding out her window to the thin winter air outside. We’re several flights up. From here, I can see Franklin Square, its carousel at a standstill.
—It’s not so bad, I say. I don’t mind the cold.
I pause, waiting, while Chambers finishes something on her computer. Then she turns around.
—Do you know why I asked you to come here? she says, cutting to the chase. In her question, I hear a faint echo of the way I talk to suspects on the street: Do you know why I detained you? Do you know why I pulled you over?
For the first time, a flicker of doubt runs through me.
—You said Sergeant Ahearn passed on some information to you, I say.
Chambers assesses me. Seeing what I know. Yes, she says slowly.
—What did he tell you?
Chambers sighs, folds her hands on the desk in front of her.
—Look, she says, this is a difficult part of my job, but I’m obliged to tell you that you’re under internal investigation.