I had played out about a thousand scenarios in my head. Would I simply be given back my old beat with my old partner? Would I be given a different beat in a different part of the city? Would I be given back my old beat but with a new partner? I had no idea what to expect. Lindsey continued to be supportive and patient with my joyous and reckless feelings despite being visibly annoyed by my rambling of questions. I had never been more productive around the house, which also pleased Lindsey. The laundry was done without constant reminders. I hung up a few photo frames along the wall up the staircase and a few other odds and ends I had been putting off since I started my leave. I actually washed my car by hand on an unseasonably warm day. Something I hadn’t done since I was seventeen when I had gotten my first car.
I again started to look over a few study guides and books I had gotten to prepare for my detective’s test. I purchased them a few months ago but they got more use as placemats in recent times. I felt purposeful again- like I suddenly discovered a light at the end of the tunnel. The tunnel that had been not just dark, but damp with my sweat and tears and dripping with Jake’s blood. I could only study in small doses due to the raging anxiety and fear and unadulterated joy I was feeling for returning to work.
I had another meeting set up with Sharper that I didn’t want to go to. Figuring I’d put up with it this long what the hell was one more session. By now, I had discovered Sharper’s routine. She’d start by asking how I had been since the last time we met, which I would reply with a one word answer. Then she’d ask if there was anything new I wanted to talk about, which would be answered with a shake of my head. She’d get frustrated and I’d get bored and by the time we actually began to make some headway, the sixty- minute timer would chime and I’d bolt out of there like it was the last day of school.
This time was going to be different.
I had mentioned my idea of being a homicide detective to her a while back, which in hindsight was an obvious mistake. She instantly analyzed my decision and concluded that I should choose something other than homicide because it would be too painful on my psyche and my subconscious would suffer dramatically, whatever the hell that means. And she clearly wasn’t listening to anything I was saying. Man, if I could do it all over again I’d become a shrink- or maybe a weather person- because no matter how wrong they are, they still earn a hefty paycheck.
“As sad as it is to say this might be our last session together, Doc,” I said.
“And why is that?”
“I guess you haven’t talked to Fitzgerald then?”
Sharper remained neutral. She always remained neutral.
I was hip to her game so I kept talking. “He wants me back in the office on Monday morning to discuss my return to work.”
“Is that what he told you?”
“Not in so simple terms but I know that’s what he meant,” I said.
“What did he tell you exactly?”
“He told me to come back and we’ll talk but I already know what he wants to talk about.”
Sharper looked at her notes and said, “Chase, that can mean a lot of things. I wouldn’t jump to too many conclusions.”
Balls of fire began to rage behind my eyelids. It was predominantly out of frustration at this conversation but more so at the fact that Sharper may actually be right. I hated that. Was I assuming too much in that Fitzgerald was speaking to me the other day like my friend and not my boss? Could it be, as much as I hate to admit it, that Sharper may be right in my conclusion jumping and I could be setting myself up for further failure?
“Nope. Not the case. I think I have proven to you, to Fitzy, and to myself that I am ready to get back to work.”
I watched her write something down on her pad. She always held it in a way that I couldn’t even see the color of her ink. Sharper sat in silence and we both attempted to wait each other out. Once again, she won.
“What do you know?” I finally said.
Three
Fitzgerald had said to be in his office by nine for our meeting. So I showed up at seven- thirty. I couldn’t tell you when I got up on Monday morning because I don’t think I actually went to bed. I was showered, fed, and ready to go so I figured, what the hell, I’ll show up early and get to Fitzgerald before he sat at his desk with his bagel and coffee.
It was the first time in quite a while that I actually felt alive.
Alive? Unlike Jake!
I felt like I actually had a purpose to serve. I tried to block out the negative thoughts and feelings about what happened with Jake. A few desks in the office were occupied when I arrived. In the distance, I could see Fitzgerald through the glass windows of his office, sitting at his desk, drinking coffee, and reading the paper. I acknowledged a few people and dodged some awkward glances along the way and cautiously rapped on his glass door.
He looked up and I couldn’t judge his feeling about me being so early. I think he anticipated it and was expecting me for the last half hour.
“Hey, Fitz,” I said.
“Come on in, Barnes. Have a seat,” he said. He folded the paper and tucked it in between a stack of case files on the corner of his desk.
“So when do I start? Am I back with Drew or do I have a new partner? As long it’s not that clown Donovan; I hate that guy.” I found myself rambling as I usually do at times like this and I didn’t care. I brought up my intentions of becoming a detective again and that I’d been attempting to occupy my six months off with studying for the test. I felt telling him again would show that I’m truly ready to return to active duty.
Fitzgerald sat back and laced his fingers across his flat stomach. I couldn’t see but I knew he was stretching out his wiry legs under the desk. “Are you finished?” he asked.
I nodded.
I felt like a kid waiting to be picked for kickball at lunch recess.
“This has been rattling around my brain for quite some time. Really since the day you went on leave. You’re a good cop but I don’t know if this is the place for you anymore.” Talk about being blunt. A problem Fitzgerald never had with anyone or anything.
Suddenly I felt like I was asked to be steady pitcher in said kickball game because I was the odd kid out. I replayed his quote in my mind a few times before responding. “What the hell is that supposed to mean? You’re transferring me? What good is that going to do? This is my home, where I need to be.” I felt deflated. “I’ve done more for this department in three years than some of those other lumps of shit out there have done in a lifetime,” I added.
“Not exactly a transfer. I’ve met with the chief on several occasions since you were put on leave, trying to make sense of this whole thing. We think you’d be better off if you went private, out on your own. You can use the excellent cop instincts you’ve been given to create quite a lucrative business.” He said this as if he were telling me to have a salad rather than a cheeseburger.
I was stunned. “Private?” What the fuck does that mean? You want me to give up my time with the department to become a private investigator? What am I, a cartoon? You can’t just draw me a new scene, Fitz.”
He threw his hands up trying to protect his ego. “Listen, I originally didn’t think this was the best move either but it’s out of my hands. However, the more I thought about it, the more it began to make sense. Besides, the chief wants what the chief wants. Trust me when I say that you’ll have the full support of the department in any cases you come across.”
“Just give me a chance to prove that I can be as good as I was and walk the beat,” I said. “On sort of a probationary basis.”
Fitzgerald fell back further into his chair and let his mouth rest on the tips of his steepled fingers and I watched him ponder for what seemed like an eternity. The further back he leaned I found myself being drawn to him and leaning further over the desk. Like a magnetic force was pulling me closer and pushing him further away.
“I’m sorry, Barnes. I wish I could and I’m sure you’d be the damned good cop I know you
were but it’s really out of my hands,” Fitzgerald said, spreading his hands like wings. “Like I said, we’ll help you out any way we can.”
This guy’s a real crackerjack. A private investigator? Who does he think he is? The only thing I know about private investigating is from what I read in novels and Magnum P.I. reruns.
“Gee, thanks. How generous of you. I can’t believe this. What the hell do I know about private investigating? How am I supposed to get cases, put up “Help Wanted” posters on telephone poles and mailboxes? Am I supposed to help little girls find their lost puppies and old ladies find their dentures?” I didn’t know what to do so I started to get up and leave.
“Chase,” Fitzgerald commanded. I turned my head with my body still carrying me towards the door. He actually first- named me. He was serious.
“What?”
“This is going to be good. And think of it this way, we’re still a team. Anything you need just shout,” he said.
“Yeah, you’re a real pal, Fitz. Thanks.”
I felt like shouting all right. I felt like shouting right in his face and anyone else that crossed my path at that moment but knew it wouldn’t do any good. And just like that, with a fresh slap in the face, I became Chase Barnes, Private Investigator. Look out world, here I come!
Four
I continue to realize that I take Lindsey’s support and love of me for granted. Aside from replaying Jake’s death in my nightmares, I also frequently have dreams about how I would have turned out if Lindsey left me for what happened to Jake.
She probably would if she knew the whole story.
I’ve actually told her, on repeated occasions, that she should have left me and found a new husband that isn’t me. Each time I make mention of her leaving me she scolds me and orders me to stop being so ridiculous. She actually slapped me once, just to make the point that she wasn’t going anywhere that much clearer. It was the first and only time either of us ever laid a hand on the other. The amount of force behind the blow led me to believe that that was her anger release without being so blatant.
During my six- month leave from the department I tried to pick up a few hobbies, as Dr. Sharper requested, but there was nothing that interested me. I’m not an active hobby person. But I guess with all the continued free time I was about to embrace I should find something. A hobby to me is following the Mets during their dismal, depressing seasons. I tried gardening then realized it was the winter. I tried building model airplanes then realized I couldn’t concentrate enough to glue the microscopic parts together. I actually glued my fingers together more than the actual parts. I even glued my shoelace to my ankle. Then I tried photography but gave that up when I realized that my pictures resembled those of a drunk ten- year old. It was then that I realized I needed to get back to work. That was my hobby. But that was recently flushed down the shitter by the one guy I truly trusted in the department.
Dr. Sharper recommended that I keep a journal while I was on my leave to help me alleviate my anger, my stress, and my anxiety that developed as a result of my experience. She was even nice enough to supply me with the black and white notebook and a brand new pen. Sharper said she would never request to read it unless I asked her to review my thoughts. She also told me it was designed as a way to continue my therapy when I’m not sitting in her uncomfortable chairs on Tuesdays. I initially thought a journal was a stupid idea, frankly because I’m not a thirteen- year old girl. And I never told Lindsey about it because I was embarrassed. This entire ordeal has been embarrassing. The fact that I was forced out of a job because they thought I had drifted off the deep end. The fact that I could never get myself to tell anyone the story of what happened that night- not my boss, not my shrink, and especially not my wife. My shrink knows an abbreviated version of the night Jake died, most of which coming from the reports from the department. Lindsey knows that Jake is dead and that I was there but nothing beyond that. I just can’t tell anyone what really happened that night. There aren’t many things I’ve ever kept from Lindsey but, since the night of the incident, I find myself holding back more and more on a daily basis.
My journal sat on the kitchen table for a few weeks before I even attempted to scribble a letter in it. I casually glanced at it every morning and it even doubled as a coaster for my Snapple iced teas during lunch. I don’t remember the exact point or what the exact reason for starting to write in my journal. I’d like to say that I’ve enjoyed writing in my journal but then I’d be lying. I’d even go as far as saying it’s been a way to process my thoughts from my experience and come to an understanding of what happened but then I wouldn’t be telling the truth. Then I’d start to sound like Dr. Sharper- something I have no desire doing. One reality is that Lindsey’s never seen what I’ve written because she doesn’t even know I’ve started writing in it. And I’m not really sure if I ever want her to know the true horror of how Jake died.
I dedicated my back deck as my writing area when I was sure to be home alone. The serene, natural ambiance of the trees and the occasional chirp of the birds in the distance provided me with a sense of clarity that allowed me time to gather my thoughts- even if it was for a short time. The first time I sat to write was a Thursday, which I remember because it marked the two month anniversary of the incident. I’ve only written in it five times because, to me, it’s enough to tell my story.
Five
“Hey, babe. How’d the meeting go?” Lindsey asked when she came through the front door. I can count on one hand the amount of times Lindsey had called me ‘Babe’ in the last six months.
Does she hate me for what happened? Does she not love me anymore?
I chalked it up to another sign of her hidden resentment towards me. I’d been home, stewing in my own frustration since my meeting with Fitzgerald. I wanted to call Lindsey and tell her all about it as soon as possible but I couldn’t.
See, Lindsey’s a teacher. A special education teacher and apparently it’s frowned upon for a teacher to accept personal phone calls during class time. Even if it is from her charming yet highly agitated husband. We frequently text a few times during her lunch period but this news was not text- worthy. I wasn’t sure how Lindsey would react since she seems to thrive on adding even her most asinine opinions and comments on any situation possible. Most people like to add their two cents; Lindsey likes to add her dollar fifty.
“Unbelievable,” I said flatly.
“That’s great! Fitzgerald is going to let you have your job back? When do you start?” Lindsey sounded so excited, clearly missing the tone of my voice. The questions came so quickly that I couldn’t even squeeze in a frustrated breath.
“Not exactly,” I said. I made her sit next to me on the couch and I told her about my conversation with Fitzgerald.
“Can they really do that?” Lindsey asked.
“I don’t know, but they did.”
“Well, you should file a grievance or something,” she said.
I wasn’t for grievances and wasn’t about to file one because of this. “It is what it is,” I said.
“What do you mean? You love being a cop and you’re so good at it,” she said.
If she only knew.
“I know but grievances are just a bunch of bullshit anyway. It’s a whole mess of paperwork that I or the guys on the other end never want to deal with and most of the grievances never even get heard anyway. And the ones that do get heard usually go unnoticed for at least six months, which could mean another six months out of work with my thumb up my ass.” I didn’t know if what I said about the delayed process of the grievances was true. However, it was all I could think of that would appease Lindsey, calm her rant, and she would have the least knowledge of them.
I could see Lindsey’s wheels spinning as she pondered what I had just said. She looked as if she was ready with a reply but I just told her to leave it alone and walked out of the room.
Six
She followed me into the kitchen and I got to her before she cou
ld deliver a jab.
“Linds, I’m not going to file a grievance. I thought about it; I really did. I really think this could be a good thing for me.” Trying to power through my frustrations, or what I thought might be frustrations, I had spent the day really considering my life as an independent private investigator. I said, “I get to make my own hours; I get to be a detective, which is what I was going to put in for at the department anyway, right?”
She nodded and I could see her mood briefly lighten. “I suppose, but what the hell do you know about private investigation? How are you going to pick up cases? And, more importantly, how are you going to earn a steady paycheck? We can’t live just on my salary.”
I knew Lindsey like a favorite pair of sneakers. The comfort level. The amount of support left in the sole. And, most importantly, the quirks that just make them work. And because of all of this, I prepared myself with a list of questions that Lindsey would bombard me with when I told her what had transpired from the meeting. I could now check off questions one, two, and four. Number three was on the way. I answered them in order in which I had them written.
“Fitzgerald said he’d throw me a few cases to get me started, which also will give me some money to bring in. I can charge an hourly rate, plus expenses, such as travel, if necessary, and supplies.” I didn’t know what type of supplies a private investigator would need but I was confident in my answer. My mind drifted to night- vision goggles and camouflage crossbows then realized I was just going to be a private investigator in suburban New Jersey not auditioning for Rambo Part Five.
The Incident (Chase Barnes Series Book 1) Page 2