Castle Danger--Woman on Ice

by Anthony Neil Smith

  She closed her eyes, then shook her head before looking at me again. “We’ll start with an administrative leave of absence. Paid, of course. Of course. But I should suspect that you’ll talk with a great attorney and our union people who will tell you that resigning saves your meddling ass better than suffering through an internal investigation that you will lose. And you’ll lose for two reasons.”

  Again, she ticked them off on her fingers. Jesus, that was annoying.

  “One, this level of insubordination must be cut off at the root, young man. It doesn’t matter if you think an injustice was done here, or if you think our detectives weren’t doing their jobs right — I assure you they were — but what you’ve done, all the orders you’ve flipped a bird to, there’s no way for you to continue on the force. And two, it’s all so much bullshit.”

  I hadn’t been paying much attention, waiting for my turn to protest point number one, when the second one sliced right through my concentration.

  I asked, “I’m sorry?”

  She said, “I’ve met Hans several times. He was a wonderful man, and one day I hope they find out what happened to him. But even his own brother says it’s possible Hans is still alive, just dropping off the grid to go biking in Tibet or god knows where. He’s done it before. Now, the sort of wild-assed rumors you’ve been spreading … the family doesn’t need that right now. They are having enough trouble with the truth. They don’t need your undignified crap muddying the waters.”

  “I swear, there’s nothing ‘wild-assed’ about it.”

  “You should know better! You haven’t got one scrap of evidence! And you’ve even dragged in someone who was on the fast track, someone who could’ve been a wonderful leader in this department! Now, he’s facing attempted murder.”

  “He saved our lives!”

  “He fucked his life, is what he did. He didn’t save shit! Neither of you were in danger and you know it!”

  “Why were they even there, then? Why did they chase us? If there’s nothing to hide, if there’s no story to uncover, why were they there? Why did they attack us?” And another thought occurred to me. “Where’s Paula, anyway? Did you lock her up? Are you giving her the third degree?”

  “Manny—”

  “Where’s Paula? Where’s Joel? What the fuck is going on here?”

  That’s when she pushed herself out of the chair and rounded her desk, taking the seat of authority, which somehow made her taller than me. She spread her elbows on the desk, cupped one hand over the other, and her face turned to stone.

  “Manny, believe me, I’m looking out for you. It’s no good. It’s like hunting for Bigfoot. Lots of noise and footprints, but never any meat. I promise I’ll do whatever I can to help you transition into a more suitable career. I can find you another job, a state job, a good one. But you’ll never be a cop again. Neither will Joel. And if you can’t leave this, this, this Bigfoot of yours alone, I can’t protect you anymore.”

  “Protect me from what?”

  She shrugged. “From your own goddamned self. You’re always getting into trouble! Let me help, will you?”

  What could I do? What choice did I have? She was right about me fucking up my job prospects. And about the general fuckery my life had turned out to be. Somehow. Maybe I was just chasing ghosts. Hannah’s ghosts — and my own, too.

  I nodded, pursed my lips, and let out a sigh. “I’m sorry. I had no idea … it’s been a tough time for me lately, lots of things in my life … my parents … and, you know, you can keep a secret?”

  “It won’t leave this office.”

  “See, this case felt like it was giving me something else to think about. Something related to me but not … me. There’s so much I have to figure out about myself, so much to think about. I thought this had to do something with me personally, as if it could help me see things clearer.”

  “We all have cases that get to us like that. You could’ve been a great detective, but taking it personally would probably have burned you on the job in no time.”

  I looked up at her. “I didn’t mean to mess up anyone’s case. I needed something. Anything. I needed an excuse to go to that bar. I needed an excuse to feel okay with it. I needed a way out if … if it all went bad. But then it did go bad, and I was stuck right the fuck — excuse me. I was stuck. I wasn’t ready for the hate. I’m still not.”

  “No one ever is, son.”

  “I know.”

  She made sympathetic noises, then, “Well, I’m going to send you home tonight. If you need someone to bring your car home, I’ll handle that, too. I think you need to hunker down for a few days. I’ll be in touch. I mean, a man nearly died. We can’t pretend that never happened. But we’ll help you move past it. We’ll give you what you need. Deal?”

  “Thanks, Chief. Deal.” I crossed my fingers in my mind, stood and shook her hand, left the office, then climbed into the passenger seat of a squad car — not the back this time, thankfully — for a ride home, thinking that I would’ve made a damned fine detective. Damned fine. But did it even matter? After this, I would be lucky to get a job at the DMV.

  Joel Skovgaard had spent the night in a drunk tank reserved just for him. As a special courtesy, they had even held off on washing it out from the last tenant, who’d gotten sick all over one corner. Lots of cop faces passed by the window while he tried to stay awake. Angry cop faces wanting to get a look at the rich kid turned war hero turned wannabe cop who had nearly taken out another cop. That was unforgiveable. He wasn’t released until late the next morning when he was taken into even harsher custody. His irate father picked him up and slapped him full across the face as soon as they were back home. Joel took the slap like a Marine. Didn’t flinch, didn’t whimper, didn’t break eye contact. Just waited. The asshole wouldn’t admit it, but having his son look at him that way scared the bejesus out of him.

  Joel wasn’t sure how he’d even gotten out. He hadn’t seen a judge yet, and there hadn’t been any bail set. Jesus, he’d nearly killed a guy and he was home already? Something didn’t feel right. He’d rather have faced more angry cops and filthy drunk tanks than once again have to assume he’d gotten an unfair break due to his dad’s money and influence.

  Joel and his father went into ‘the study’. The man-cave. The only place in the house where the ‘women’ were not allowed, and neither had Joel been for most of his life. When he was finally invited in at fifteen for his first scotch and ‘the talk’, he realized it was a sad room, nowhere near as cool as he had expected — there was no drawer full of sub-Hustler class pornos, no wall display of guns and swords, no terrarium of exotic snakes. Just boring books, boring desk, boring boring.

  As his dad got older and had moved up the social ladder, the room had become more modern, at least. There was now a large Apple monitor on the desk, turned to face them, and on the screen was the old Chief skyping in, looking fatter than ever in a Polo shirt straining at a miniscule button — lone survivor of his smug obesity — with his lake cottage in the backdrop, all white and blue and yellow, wood-paneled, country-cabin knick-knacks. Guess he hadn’t made it to Chapel Hill like he’d hoped, not yet anyway. Beside him sat a gangly acne victim, presumably his grandson, stoically suffering the existential burden of late pubescence, and the even heavier one of having to show Gramps how Skype worked.

  The Chief ignored Joel. “Abe, I did you a goddamned favor! The last favor I had stored up, I did it for you. He’ll get his day in court, don’t forget, but you’d better keep an eye on him. Now, how the fuck do you explain this?”

  His wife’s voice from off-screen: “Language! The boy!”

  The Chief glanced at his grandson, said, “Adult words. You say them, I’ll tan your ass.”

  Abe shook his head. “Joel didn’t have a choice. It was his … partner.” Like the word was dirty. “He’s got this faggot partner.” But faggot, no hesitation there. “You know how it is, Brian. Your partner asks for a favor—”

  Joel spoke up. “I don
’t give a shit if he’s a faggot. He’s a prick, but he’s a good cop.”

  “Did either of us tell you to open your god-damn- … your goddarned trap, son?” The Chief. “You are the last person who should be talking right now. You should be clinging to that goddarned right to silence like a toilet brush in a shit storm. Every word you say is going to rain down more shit on your shitty chances of getting out of this … this SHIT!”

  Abe raised his hands. “Now hold on. Calm down. Let’s figure this out.”

  The Chief stabbed his finger at the screen. “Figure it out, fuck … I mean, frig. I mean, look, he needs to wash his hands. Say it was all the queer’s idea. He needs to hand over his rifle. He needs to friggin’ pray that the cop he shot pulls through, first and foremost! You have no idea how bad this is. See my grandboy, here? His folks live in Grand Rapids, and I drove three hours round-trip to get him because I have no idea how to use this bull crap machine! It’s that big a deal!”

  “Joel made a mistake. Lots of cops make mistakes, Brian. Didn’t you?”

  “He shot a cop, which makes him not a cop anymore, face it. The boy’s on his own now. We might be able to steer him out of prison, but he’ll never work for the police again. Or any state office, forget it.” Then those beady eyes flicked to Joel. “You’re very goddamned, darned, fuck—”

  “Language!”

  “You’re lucky you were in the Corp.”

  The words came at Joel like flack. He slouched back, crossed his arms. “Doesn’t feel like it.”

  Abe reached across and tried to slap his son again, but Joel caught his hand, squeezed. Held it in front of the screen for the Chief to see.

  Joel said, “The only reason I’ve never stopped him from hitting me was out of respect. But I’ve just run all out. You win, both of you. I’ll turn in the gun. I’ll roll on Manny. You’ll hold up your end and leave me the fuck alone. Got it?”

  The Chief leaned in tight to the screen, all fish-eyed. “You don’t get to give us orders, son.”

  Joel let go of his father’s hand and stood, got face to face with the lard-ass in his dainty cottage. “Well, I was a corporal in the Marine Corps. What the fuck were either of you?”

  He turned, walked out, and tossed over his shoulder, “You two clean up my shit. I’m going to see my girl.”

  Why they didn’t send the cops to take him back to jail right then, I’ll never know. Seemed to both of us that the Chief must’ve had a damned good reason to keep him free. If it had been my call, I’d sure as hell have kept him locked up.

  But then I would’ve given him a medal for saving my life.

  It’s complicated.

  2

  What did ‘normal’ people do to fill in the dead hours? What do you think about when it isn’t your second nature to strap on a gun and deal with a surprise around every corner, at every call? Or how about all those ‘normal’ people who knew exactly who they were born to be, who to fuck, what to wear, how to live with the genitals they’d been assigned by the card shuffle of DNA?

  Did they watch TV? I mean, really watch TV, getting into the plots and characters as if they were old friends? It all felt phony to me. Did they surf the web, comment on Facebook statuses, like Instagram selfies? Why the fuck did I want to live vicariously through all those supposedly ‘normal’ folk? I wanted my life back. I wanted to give Hannah some peace. I wanted to find the people who had beaten me, and I wanted to make them understand I was on their side.

  I wanted to know how Paula got that banking receipt out of my locked car.

  I wanted to know why Joel was out of jail, instead of facing much more serious charges.

  Most of all, I wanted to know why it was so important for Chief Bosack to ‘protect’ me.

  But I wasn’t getting any answers. And I had this … feeling, you know? As if every cop I saw was there to watch me. As if my place had been bugged like I was a Cold War spy. As if they could monitor my brain waves.

  So I acted normal.

  ‘Normal’ is more like it. This normal business was for other people. Boring people.

  I called my sister more than usual. Marcia filled me in on whatever weird arrangement my parents had arrived at — satisfied together, but unable to live with each other. Their affection grew in direct relation to the miles between them. Not that there hadn’t been clues over the years. Mom had always been able to put on a happy face for our guests at the farm, but as soon as they’d one, she’d retreated into herself. Smile gone. Cigarette at the ready. The sadness of someone who had fallen out of love and blamed herself for it.

  “You should see Mom’s place. It’s … wow. I mean, I love the farm, but she’s on the lake, she’s up high, it’s all modern and sleek. It’s the opposite, Manny. The opposite.”

  “I can see that.”

  “Just drive down. She’d love to see you. And trust me, it’s not like you’re going to surprise her, like, you know. You’re not going to catch her doing anything besides being mom.”

  “Maybe later. Can’t right now.”

  “What’s up with you? You sound … sad.”

  I wondered if the BCA had a tap on my phone. Was that possible? Legal? I wondered if they would only get one side of the conversation. “I think I’m going to look for another job. I’m not sure about being a cop anymore.”

  “Wow. That’s … wow.” She liked to say wow a lot. “Wow.”

  “Seriously. I mean … it’s not for me.”

  She was quiet for a long moment.

  Very quiet.

  I was hoping she wouldn’t say what she must have been thinking.

  She didn’t. “Does this have to do with your assault?”

  Legal term. Good. “Um hm.”

  “Anything else?”

  “We can talk about it later. I’m getting sleepy. Can barely hold the phone.”

  So we ended the call, and I wasn’t sleepy at all. I was just … leery. It was nearly midnight. I hadn’t eaten anything since whenever. My brain was itchy. And the breeze outside was actually kind of warm for the first time in months. The blizzard of two nights before — yeah, it’s been two days now — had come and gone like, well, like a blizzard in a Minnesota Spring. And as usual all the heavy, wet, nasty stuff that slammed the North Shore like a hammer virtually started melting on impact.

  I went for a walk. There was a Wendy’s half-a-mile away, open twenty-four seven, and for once it seemed like a safe walk at this time of night. I had my own police escort, didn’t I? At least I sensed some form of surveillance. Call it a cop’s sixth sense or whatever. I couldn’t see them, but I imagined them like ninjas, hiding in the shadows ready to either attack or protect me. Thanks, Chief Bosack! Thanks very much!

  Along the way I was multi-tasking — avoiding the almost-gone snow drifts and the re-frozen puddles stopped cold on their way to the gutters, sidestepping the churned-up soil and dirt, and thinking, always thinking. Where was Paula? She hadn’t done anything wrong. She’d had permission to be in Hannah’s cottage, more than the BCA guys ever did. She hadn’t threatened a cop, or shot one. Had she been arrested? Had she made some sort of escape? I could only imagine what she must have been going through if they’d taken her in, treated her like a man, used the threat of getting thrown in with the aggressively drunk (men) and the notoriously violent (men) for the night as a way to make her spill.

  My hands were so deep in my coat pockets that they started to ache. One of the streetlights ahead was out — not that they were a lot of help in this gloom, but it looked as though I was walking towards a black hole. In my mind, it looked like a perfect analogy. Without Paula, I didn’t have the full story, whatever it might be. The BCA would have finished tearing apart Hannah’s cottage, and thus would have secured the evidence they needed to bury this thing once and for all, whatever this ‘thing’ really was. How did they even know that there was something to find? Did the Chief know as well? Did everybody know what was happening, while I was just making a fool of myself? Shit, even
if there’d ever been any, all evidence would be long gone by now.

  Except …

  “Bury.” I mumbled it. I imagined junkies hiding in shadows and looking up as I spoke, starting towards me, but then seeing the unmarked car, a detective signaling, Let it go, dude, before slinking back into darkness. “Bury it.”

  Hans/Hannah wasn’t an idiot. Hans/Hannah was an outdoorsman/woman. The evidence was not in the cabin. “Holy shit.”

  I made it to Wendy’s, ordered a spicy chicken combo with a large Frosty, and sat in the back corner, the buzzing lights turning windows into mirrors, wondering how the fuck I was going to get back up to that cottage without anybody noticing.

  Back at my apartment, I turned off all the lights and stripped down, treading as lightly as possible. The walk back had helped put together more of those ‘edge’ pieces the Chief said I had.

  But what was I going to wear? If there were cops out there, or someone worse than cops, I didn’t want them following ‘Manny’. At least not the Manny they would expect to be following.

  Marcia had left a dress here once. I crawled into the closet, searched the floor. I’d kept forgetting about it, then would see it again and swear I needed to give it back, but forget just as quickly. It was light and summery, no sleeves. In this weather? It was all I had. Marcia was larger than me, curvier than me. I was all legs, and thin to boot. At least I had that going for me. What else, what else …

  A wig. I’d had it for years. Stupid Halloween party. Blonde. Straight. Longer than Hannah’s hair, and a little more yellow. Fine for that night, though. Also, the black thigh-highs from my last shopping trip. Too sexy for what I needed, but it was still cold as fuck out there and I had kept them just in case.

  No make-up. I would need more light and time for that. And, oh man, I hadn’t shaved in two days.

  So.

  I slipped into the underwear I bought at the mall and sat on the edge of my bed to roll on the thigh-highs. Then, some random t-shirt underneath against the cold. A scarf helped hide my shortcomings.