Long Bright River(67)

It comes out before I can stop myself. Me? I say, dumbly, pointing to my own chest. I’m under investigation?

Chambers nods. I have a sudden memory of Truman’s warning to me to get some allies in the district. Politics, Mick.

—For what? I say.

Chambers extends her fingers, ticking off items as she speaks.

—On Tuesday of last week, you were seen with an unauthorized passenger in your car. You were also seen outside your assigned PSA. On Wednesday and Thursday you were seen without your radio and out of uniform while on your shift. On Friday, you failed to respond to any calls for a block of two hours. In general, your productivity this fall has decreased by about twenty percent. You’ve also run searches on two civilians in the PCIC frequently and without cause. Finally, we have reason to believe you’ve been bribing a business owner in your district as well.

I look at her.

—Who? I ask her, incredulous.

—Alonzo Villanueva, she says. And we believe you’ve been keeping a change of civilian clothing in his store for unauthorized activities during work hours. And that on at least one occasion, you stored your department-issued weapon there, unsecured.

I’m silent.

Everything Chambers is saying is, technically, true. And yet I am shocked. It’s also embarrassing to know I’ve been watched: I scan my memories of the last week, thinking about what I’ve said, what I’ve done, while in a police vehicle. Wondering whether they gathered information through audio or video recording, or simply through having someone from Internal Affairs tag me on my shifts. Anything is possible.

—May I ask what triggered this investigation? I say.

—I’m afraid I can’t tell you that, says Chambers.

But I know.

It was Ahearn, without a doubt. He’s never liked me. It’s true that my productivity has been in sharp decline since Truman went on leave, and my activity logs no doubt reflect that. Sometimes this alone can trigger internal monitoring, a request for surveillance. But I also think, aside from that, he’s been looking for a way to get rid of me for years.

—Did Sergeant Ahearn tell you anything else? I ask. Did he tell you about Paula Mulroney? Did he tell you about the accusation she made against at least one officer?

Chambers hesitates. He did say something about that, she says. Yes.

And all of a sudden I know: Ahearn poisoned the well. He played down what I said. He told Chambers that I would be making a complaint, but that I was untrustworthy.

—And what are you going to do about it? I say. Has Detective Nguyen been informed?

—He has been, says Chambers. He’s looking into it.

—Look, I say, a little wildly now. Ahearn has never liked me. I’m not his friend. But I’m honest, and I’m telling you that one of our officers—at least one—has been accused of using his power to demand sex from women who are not in a position to say no.

There is silence in the room, briefly.

—And, I continue, emboldened now, that this person was spotted on video following one of our victims.

Chambers’s gaze wavers for a second. The fact of our gender—two female officers, one older, one younger, sitting across a desk from one another—lingers in the air between us, just briefly, like smoke.

—Did he tell you that part? I say. Or did he leave it out?

But Denise Chambers will say no more.





I walk out of the Roundhouse with paperwork in my hands. It informs me of my rights and responsibilities during the suspension I’ve been placed on, pending investigation.

At least, I think, I won’t have to worry anymore about who will watch Thomas on snow days. At least there’s that.

In the lobby, I keep my gaze on the floor.

The only person I wish to speak to, right now, is Truman.

I get into my car and take out my phone. I’m about to call him when a thought takes hold of me. Whether or not this is paranoia, I can’t say. But if Internal Affairs knew as much as they did about me, it does not seem out of the question that they have received permission to tap either my phone or my personal vehicle. I glance up at the ceiling, at my dome light, at the backseat, at Thomas’s booster seat in the middle. I don’t know what actions are within their rights. And I don’t wish to get Truman in trouble, too: he’s done enough.

I put my phone away and peel out, driving blindly toward Mount Airy.

I feel self-conscious, stopping in on Truman without phoning ahead, but I don’t know what else I can do. I hope I don’t surprise him at an inopportune time. I keep remembering the woman’s voice in the background of my call to him. Who is that? the woman was saying. Truman, who is that?



* * *



—

Truman’s car, a neat and polished Nissan Sentra, sits in his driveway. Truman’s personal vehicles are always impeccable. Not a trace of food or dust or dirt anyplace inside or out. Especially since Thomas was born, my car has always been full: full of kids’ toys and crumbs and water bottles, full of shopping bags and food wrappers and coins and snacks.

I park on the street again and walk onto Truman’s porch. I hesitate before knocking: second thoughts, second thoughts.

I’m standing there, my hand in the air, deciding, when the front door flies open. On the other side of it is a tiny lady, less than five feet tall.