I’m tempted to brush off the matter by telling P.J. to ask her parents about it, but I know she won’t. Her isolation from her parents is as much because that’s the way P.J. likes it as it is her parents’ laser and often singular focus on other things. No, I can’t brush her off, I realize. But I’m not ready to tackle the problem yet, either. So, I stall.
“Tell you what, P.J.,” I say. “You and I can talk about that stuff and I’ll explain it to you. But I can’t do it tonight because it’s a big topic and it will take more time than I have right now. I need to get ready for my shift with the police. And I think it’s your bedtime, isn’t it?”
“I go to bed when I want,” she says with a shrug. From any other kid I would suspect this is a bit of false bravado, but I believe P.J. She turns and heads for the door again. “I’ll be by in the morning to walk Roscoe after you get home,” she says over her shoulder.
“That’s fine. And since I’ll be sleeping for a good part of the day, would you mind walking him again around lunchtime?”
“Sure,” she says, pausing in the doorway. “Goodnight.” She’s out the door, closing it behind her before I can say goodnight back.
I stare at the closed door for a minute or two, my mind racing. Clearly, I’m going to need to come up with a plan for dealing with this issue. And knowing P.J. like I do, I realize it will have to be sooner rather than later. She is bright, curious, and inquisitive, and when she gets a bug up her butt on a subject, she doesn’t let it go until she gets the answers she’s seeking. While watching a Harry Potter movie at my house one afternoon, a commercial came on about a feminine hygiene product. That triggered a host of awkward questions from P.J. that I tried my darnedest to skirt around and avoid. But over a period of several days she kept bringing the topic up, asking and prodding and digging until she felt satisfied with the answers I gave her. We waged a similar skirmish when she heard the phrase erectile dysfunction somewhere and started questioning me on what it meant. Every answer led to a new question, and I danced around that one the best I could using euphemisms and terms like “a circulatory problem” that were factual but also vague.
I turn and look at Roscoe, who is still lying on the floor by the couch. “Looks like we have our work cut out for us with P.J., eh?” I say, and Roscoe thumps his tail in agreement.
I go to my bedroom and pick out some slacks and a plain tan blouse to wear for my night shift with the police department. When I asked what I should wear for the job—would a uniform be required? —Chief Hanson had suggested that we start out with simple street clothes, something that looked professional to a degree—no blue jeans—but nothing too fancy. Basically, the same things I would wear for my job at the hospital, accompanied by an ID badge that made it clear I was a member of the police department. And until the weather got too warm for it, I also had my bomber jacket, which I considered really to be the bomb, and which has the police department emblem sewn onto the front of it.
I’d been relieved to learn that I wouldn’t have to be fitted for a uniform because I knew it wouldn’t be an off-the-rack affair and I’d have to arrange for some hurried alterations. As it was, I bought a few new clothing items as a way of celebrating my new job: several pairs of slacks, some blouses, and two pant suits. The blouses fit me fine since they were short-sleeved, though they did hang lower on me than they would on most women. The other stuff all had to be altered and I’d taken the items to Tamela, a fellow foster sibling I got to know when I lived in a group home during high school. In fact, she is due to deliver the items back to me tomorrow evening.
After getting myself ready, I put Roscoe’s vest on him and the two of us hop in my car. The drive to the station only takes a few minutes thanks to the lack of traffic at this time of night, and my badge gives me access to the fenced-in lot behind the station. I park, leash up Roscoe, and badge us into the building via the back door, which opens into the station’s breakroom.
I’m early by half an hour, so I tell Roscoe to go lie down and then I do some cleanup. Back when I first saw this room, which was before I was hired on, I was appalled at what a mess it was. And being just the tiniest bit OCD when it comes to cleanliness, I proceeded to spiff the place up. My efforts were noticed and appreciated by Brenda Joiner, the only person who commented at all. The rest of the station employees not only haven’t noticed, but they’ve made no effort whatsoever to maintain the newly cleaned state. I’m surprised I got the job I did with this department because, apparently, being a slob is one of the criteria for working here.
Tonight’s mess is the usual: crumbs on the counters, the remains of some tomato sauce that exploded from someone’s nuke-a-meal inside the microwave, cup and can rings on the countertops, spilt soda on the floor and table, an overflowing trash can, and a sink half-filled with used coffee mugs and water glasses. Roscoe settles on the doggie pillow that Chief Hanson bought for him, sniffing at the food and water dishes beside it, but not sampling either. He watches me as I make quick work of the cleanup and then thumps his tail when Brenda Joiner comes in the back door just as I finish.
“Oh, Hildy, you do nice work,” she says appreciatively.
“Thanks.”
She walks over to Roscoe and gives him a scratch between his ears. She does this every time she sees him, which is why he started thumping his tail the minute she came through the door. “How’s our boy tonight?”
Judging from the lolling tongue and look of ecstasy on Roscoe’s face, I’d say he’s doing just fine.
“I’m looking forward to our shift tonight,” Brenda says. “This new program is exciting. I think it’s a great idea. Last night was certainly a big one, eh?”
“That it was,” I agree.
“Hopefully we won’t have anything quite that exciting tonight. How did you and Devo get on?”
“Well enough. It’s going to take some time for people to get used to having me tag along.”
“Devo’s a bit old school,” Brenda says, rolling her eyes. “He might take longer than some of the others. Though I can’t speak for the county guys. They might take to you right away.”
Her comment puzzles me. “They shouldn’t have to deal with me too much,” I say.
Brenda looks at me, her brow furrowed. “You know you’re going to be riding with them, too, right?”
“What? No. Why do you say that?”
Brenda sighs and shakes her head. “I can’t believe they didn’t tell you.”
“Tell me what?” I say, a sinking feeling in my gut.
“In order to get the funding approved, Chief Hanson had to expand his proposal to reach beyond the Sorenson city limits. Helping Hands is going to be a countywide program. You and Roscoe are going to be doing ride-alongs with the county sheriffs, as well. In fact, you might end up spending more time with them than with us.”
I ponder this new information with a mix of irritation, excitement, and trepidation. I’m irritated that I wasn’t told this before now, excited that the program would apparently extend beyond the confines of Sorenson—which, despite last night’s happenings, I suspect isn’t all that exciting on most nights—and trepidation because I’ll be working with a group of unknown cops. I felt comfortable with the Sorenson department because I’ve gotten to know most of the officers through my work at the hospital. The county sheriff’s department is a whole new unknown.
“Thanks for telling me,” I say to Brenda. “Chief Hanson somehow neglected to share that information with me.”
“Sorry,” Brenda says with a grimace. “I hope it doesn’t upset you.”
“It’s unexpected,” I admit. “But I’ll adapt. That’s what the program is about, after all, adapting to unexpected and new situations, and helping others do the same.”
“Good attitude,” Brenda says. “I’m going to go check out the shift report. Meet you back here in five to ten?”
“We’ll be here.”
The back door opens, and Devo comes in. He nods at me but doesn’t say a word.
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“Ready to roll, Devo?” Brenda says.
“Sure,” he answers with little enthusiasm. He follows Brenda out of the breakroom and down the hall to a front room where the shift handoffs take place. There is no fancy roll call here, or room full of coppers getting all the latest intel and info like you might see on a TV show. Sorenson only has three officers on duty on the night shift, and a maximum of five on the day and evening shifts most of the time.
Other than the murder of Arthur Fletcher, there must not be much going on in town. And judging from the fact that Brenda and Devo return from their shift report in eight minutes flat, I gather there hasn’t been much progress in the Fletcher case, either.
Five minutes later, Brenda and I are cruising through town, Roscoe riding contentedly in his pen in the back of the car. There is a thin haze of fog hovering over the ground in areas, lending the night an ethereal air.
“They had a bunch of guys from the FBI and Homeland Security out at the Fletcher farm all day today,” Brenda tells me. “It’s obvious that Mr. Fletcher wasn’t growing that much stuff just for himself, and they haven’t had much luck yet tracking the cash flows he received to figure out who he was working for. They’re interviewing other farmers in the area to see if any of them were approached by anyone offering cash payments for certain crops, but so far Fletcher seems to be the only one. Though that’s assuming the other farmers are being upfront and honest about things. For all we know, there may be another one of those barn basements filled with death plants in the area. Farmers are really struggling these days. Can’t say I’d blame them for the marijuana, but the other stuff....” She shakes her head woefully.
“Do you think Mr. Fletcher knew what he was growing?” I ask her. “I mean, I’m sure he knew about the pot and I imagine he figured it was worth the risk since the stuff is getting legalized everywhere these days. It’s only a matter of time before that happens here, too, I suppose. But what about the other plants? The ones used to make ricin and stuff like that. Do you think Arthur Fletcher knew that he was growing poisons for potential weaponization and bioterrorism?”
Brenda sighs. “Hard to say. I heard they found some articles on Fletcher’s computer that suggest he had some strong anti-government leanings. Not hard for a farmer to think that way these days, since the government seems to have abandoned them. But we’re starting to wonder if maybe he was having second thoughts. Arthur Fletcher owned a cell phone, but we can’t find it anywhere, and the land line to his house was cut. The key to his pickup is also missing. Sounds like someone was afraid Fletcher might go AWOL.”
“That would explain why he was killed,” I say, and Brenda nods grimly.
We are driving past the cemetery, the one where Danny claimed to have seen Fletcher’s ghost. Clearly, Fletcher’s death spooked him, and I can’t help but wonder how much Danny knew about what was going on out there at the farm. I’m about to say as much to Brenda when I see something strange near the giant oak tree in the cemetery.
And then I’m stunned into horrified silence as I watch the ghost of Arthur Fletcher emerge from the trunk of a tree.
Chapter 14
“Brenda, stop the car!” I say when I manage to find my voice.
She hits the brakes and pulls over to the curb. “What? What’s wrong?” she says, looking about frantically.
I realize then what I’m about to say, that I just saw a ghost in the town cemetery. We are nearly two blocks past the graveyard already, and I glance back over my shoulder, half expecting to see Arthur Fletcher’s ghost come flying down the street toward us. But of course, that doesn’t happen.
“I thought I saw something.... something odd back there at the cemetery,” I say. “Can we turn around and go back?”
“Okay,” Brenda says slowly, shifting the car into gear. “What is it you think you saw?”
She’s going to think I’m a lunatic. And then she’ll tell Chief Hanson about it and I’ll end up getting fired from this job before I’ve even finished the first week.
I realize how insane it’s going to sound if I tell Brenda what I think I saw, so I do a quick mental scramble and come up with a version of the truth. “I saw something odd, like a weird flash of light. Maybe it’s the same thing that Danny saw.”
The two of us stare at the cemetery in silence as Brenda steers the car back down the street and then turns left to drive past the gated side. I see tombstones and monuments in the dim moonlight, but nothing else.
“I don’t see anything. Maybe it was a trick of the light,” Brenda says suggestively, and I nod. She eyes me warily and then says, “You look like you’ve seen a ghost, Hildy. Are you sure you’re okay?”
“I’m fine,” I say, though I’m not totally convinced, and I can’t help but chuckle at the irony of her comment. Surely, I didn’t see a ghost. I don’t believe in ghosts. “It must have been an odd patch of fog that reflected the moonlight just right,” I tell her. “It did look like a ghost.”
We both laugh at that, though I’m aware that neither laugh is fully committed. I realize we’re both feeling a little nervous, and I decide to try to shift the conversation to a more neutral topic.
“Whatever it was, it’s gone now,” I say. “Sorry for making you stop.”
“Hey, not a problem.”
“So, I hear you’re dating Christopher Malone from the ME’s office.”
She gives me a funny look before answering, probably amused or confused by my random change of subject. “I am. For several months now. It seems to be going rather well.”
“That’s great.”
“I hear you might be dating Bob Richmond,” she counters.
I make a face. “I’m not sure you could call what we’re doing dating,” I say. “We’ve had dinner together two whole times, but it always feels more like two friends getting together, or two colleagues. I think he’s interested in me in a more romantic way, but I’ll be darned if I can figure out how to go about getting him to take the next step.”
Brenda chuckles. “Men,” she says with a woeful shake of her head. “They are complicated creatures at times, aren’t they? I tried to tell Christopher once that I wanted to feel more like a woman, meaning I wanted to dress up in feminine clothes and maybe soak in a bubble bath or get a pedicure, those kinds of things. His response was to suggest that I cook more often or decorate something.”
I snort a laugh. “I went out with a guy once who couldn’t understand why it bothered me that he flirted with other women during our date. He kept insisting that since he was on a date with me, I should feel confident and secure in our relationship. I told him that confident and secure doesn’t typically come on first dates, particularly when your date spends most of his time eyeballing other pretty women. He told me our first date would be the last because I was just too insecure. I came back with a comment about how cocky it was of him to assume I’d want a second date. At which point he said, “Why wouldn’t you? I’m a catch.”
“Oh my God, he actually said I’m a catch?” Brenda says, giggling in disbelief.
“Yes, he did.”
“Men and their egos,” Brenda says. “And they’re like mascara. They run at the first sign of emotion.”
“Do you have a hard time at work given that you’re a woman in a mainly male field?”
“Oh, the guys tease me all the time. They’re crass, politically incorrect, and ribald as all get out. When we attend those employee awareness sexual harassment sessions, I realize that their behaviors are like a training video on what not to do. But I don’t mind it. No one is mean to me, and I know they have my back if I need them. They may tease me a lot, but I dish it right back to them. And I know that despite it all I have their respect. The teasing is just a way to let off some steam and build camaraderie. Though I suppose my tolerance of it sets the women’s movement back a decade or two every time I let them get away with something.”
I shrug. “My personal feelings on the matter are that if no one is offended or gets
hurt, where’s the harm? I think where things go off the rails is when someone like you doesn’t mind the banter and even engages in it, and then someone else comes along who doesn’t like it and they complain. Sometimes it’s hard for people to realize that not everyone will appreciate that sort of banter. But it’s not uncommon in fields where there’s a high level of stress. I see it among the medical staffers a lot, especially in the ER. And now that there are more men in nursing, and more women doctors, it’s gotten worse instead of better. The sexual innuendo, crassness, and political incorrectness that flies around there is crazy. But no one seems to mind it. It keeps them laughing, and that’s good therapy.”
“Speaking of laughs,” Brenda says, “there’s this one incident that the guys tease me about all the time that still makes me crack up whenever I think about it. I arrested this guy for a B and E at a liquor store and he was already drunk as a skunk. So, I cuffed him and then proceeded to cite the Miranda warning. When I got to the part that says anything you say can be held against you, he came back with How about your boobs?”
I chuckle. “That was some fast thinking on his part.”
“And even more impressive when you consider he blew a three-nine.”
Our conversation is cut short by a call coming in over the car’s radio, asking Brenda to check out a complaint about a guy who appears to be having a mental breakdown. My thoughts immediately go to Danny when I hear this, but the address isn’t anywhere near his sister’s house. In fact, it’s on the opposite side of town. Of course, it’s possible Danny might be at some other location, so I remain prepared to find the poor guy once again in the throes of a schizophrenic episode.
It only takes a few minutes to reach the address the dispatcher gave us. It’s one of several duplexes on a street, some of them owned by the people who live in them, some of them rentals. There is a woman in a bathrobe, pajamas, and a cap with two points on top of it, making her look like a bat or a cat, standing in the front yard of the address we were given. Brenda pulls up to the curb and parks.
Night Shift Page 13