At Rope's End

by Edward Kay

  Verraday nodded. “Thanks.”

  Neither of them spoke for a long moment. Verraday distractedly ran a hand through his hair.

  “I almost can’t believe this has happened,” he said at last. “I always thought I’d feel thrilled when I heard that he’d died.”

  “And now?”

  “And now I feel sort of cheated.”

  “How so?” asked Maclean.

  Verraday no longer felt distant from Maclean. He liked this woman, had an urge to share secrets with her, and for a moment, considered telling her the truth: that he felt cheated because he wasn’t the one who had gotten to pull the trigger. But he decided it might be impolitic to tell an officer of the law that he had homicidal impulses toward someone who had just blown his brains out under mysterious circumstances.

  So instead he answered, “Because now there’s no chance that he will ever be brought to justice.”

  “Maybe it’s karma catching up to him,” replied Maclean.

  “My sister believes in that kind of stuff. Do you?” asked Verraday.

  “Unfortunately, after eight years as a cop, I haven’t seen anything to convince me of its existence. I just said it because I saw that Buddha in your office. Thought maybe that’s what you believed. But I hope there is such a thing. Because I see way too many people getting away with hurting other people. That’s the part of this job that bothers me the most.” Maclean took another sip of her drink. Then she leaned toward Verraday and spoke softly. “Can I ask you something? About the car crash?”

  “Sure,” replied Verraday. “I’m not precious about it. Been over it way too many times for that.”

  “Are you one hundred percent certain that it happened the way you said it did in your police file? That Robson was at fault?”

  “I’m positive,” replied Verraday. “Penny remembered it the same way as me, right up to when Robson hit us. Then she blacked out. I was in the rear seat on the passenger’s side, farthest from the point of impact, so I got the least of it. I was conscious the whole time. And I remember everything like it was this morning.”

  “You remember it through personal experience. But that can be subjective, can’t it? Speaking as a psychologist, how do you know that’s what happened?”

  “Science. It’s called flashbulb memory. And it has been tested and proven. It’s a moment in time that’s so vivid, so emotionally arousing that the episode part of your memory takes a snapshot of it, and you remember key details vividly and forever. The cops that interviewed me afterward tried to get me to change my story to say my mother ran the red light. That’s how false memory syndrome happens. But not in my case. I knew she hadn’t. And I still know that. Because I can still picture the green traffic light in front of our car in the intersection. ‘Deck the Halls’ was playing on the radio. I remember the peppermint smell of the candy cane that my sister Penny had in her mouth. I might have only been eight, but unlike Robson, I wasn’t drunk. I remember him coming to the window and shining a flashlight in on us. I could smell the booze on his breath. Whiskey. I knew what it was because I used to smell the same thing on my old man’s breath once in a while, like at New Year’s and Christmas Eve, when he was giving me a goodnight kiss and tucking me into bed. My dad wasn’t much of a drinker though. At least not before the accident.”

  “You really remember all that?”

  “Let me ask you something. What were you doing when you first found out about the 9/11 attacks?”

  Maclean gazed off into the middle distance, then turned back to Verraday.

  “I was in my senior year of high school. It was a quarter after seven in the morning. I’d just gotten up. I had this biology assignment with a question about pathogens that I was having trouble with. Since my mom’s a nurse, I knew she’d know that answer, so I was planning to ask her about it. But when I came out of my room, I looked down the hall and saw that her eyes were shiny, like she’d been crying. She was watching CNN, which I remember thinking was unusual, because my mother never watched television in the morning. When she saw me, she said, ‘Somebody flew two jets into the World Trade Center. And one of the towers just came down.’ She was wearing her green scrubs, getting ready to start her shift at the hospital. She told me that we should both go to the Red Cross later that day and donate blood because they were going to need it. I remember seeing the second tower coming down. I’ll never forget that feeling.”

  “See? That’s what I’m talking about,” said Verraday. “An event like that is so momentous that our mind freezes everything in time around it. Just like you remember that your mom was wearing her green scrubs and that you had a biology assignment. That’s how I know I saw what I saw when my mom died. Especially because the police pressured me so hard to change my story. Even at that age, it struck me as strange that they kept badgering me, so it kind of made me work it through in my mind.”

  “Is that when you became interested in memory?”

  “I never thought about it before. But I guess so. Memory and the truth. And fairness. Or all of it. I mean, it’s not like I had any idea what a psychologist was when I was eight. But I do know that it was the first time in my life that I’d felt outrage about being treated unfairly and being browbeaten. Up until then, I was like most boys. I idolized cops. They were the heroes from movies and TV shows, keeping us safe and putting all the ‘bad guys’ in jail, right? Even after Robson hit our car, I didn’t think of it at first as anything but a tragic accident. Not until he ran away and left us there to die, even when I called after him to help. Is that mentioned anywhere in the official files? That I called to him for help and that he ignored me?”

  “No. Not exactly, at least. In the internal affairs report, he stated that he left the scene because he was in shock. He lived just a few blocks from the intersection. He said he ran home in a state of mental confusion. Claimed that it was only after he got to his house that it started to sink in what had happened. He said he poured himself a few stiff shots of whiskey to steady his nerves. Then he called nine-one-one to report the accident.”

  “What do you believe?”

  “I believe that Robson’s description of his own actions after the collision fits the pattern of one of the oldest DUI dodges in the book. Leaving the scene of an accident because you’re confused and in shock isn’t nearly as serious as impaired driving causing death. That one gets you jail time. So if there’s nobody around to stop them, a drunk driver can flee the scene, go home, say they had nothing before the accident and half a dozen when they got home. It means that any Breathalyzer test we give them is worthless in court. People do it all the time when they think they can get away with it.”

  “So you believe me?”

  “Look, I was two years old when it happened. But from what I could find out, he didn’t exactly have a stellar history on the force even before that night. Whatever anybody told you at the time, the truth is that after the accident, the department took him off the street, out of cars, and transferred him to a desk job until he retired. It’s not an admission of guilt, but let me tell you, the Seattle PD doesn’t take somebody off the street for no reason. Anyway, I’m sorry for what happened to you. It’s a terrible thing to lose a parent. And to have it covered up.”

  “Well, you know how it feels.”

  “That I do,” said Maclean.

  The waiter glanced over in their direction. Maclean picked up on his cue.

  “Want to stay for another?” she asked.

  “Sure,” said Verraday, “That’d be good.”

  Maclean signaled for another round of drinks. Verraday absent-mindedly tapped the rim of his glass.

  “Out of curiosity, do you know Bosko?” he asked.

  “Not really,” Maclean replied. “Uniform cop. Passed him a couple of times in the station. Never spoken to him. I don’t think he’ll ever make detective or sergeant. Not after what happened with you. Even if the department won’t admit it. Plus he doesn’t have the smarts to be a senior officer. But whatever
his faults, he’s brave, I’ll give him that.”

  “What makes you say that?”

  “He saved a kid who fell into a storm sewer during a flood last spring. Went in after him without any backup or equipment. It was an extremely dangerous situation. He got a commendation for it.”

  “I can never understand that about cops,” said Verraday. “I mean, some cops.”

  “What?”

  “The fact that they seem to like kids so much. But only until they grow up. What’s that about?”

  “I can’t speak for Bosko. But cops have a protective nature. Kids are easy to protect, philosophically speaking. They’re pure and innocent. Unfortunately, by the time people grow up, you can’t be as certain of their motives any more. That’s why most of us get into this line of work. We want to be the people you once idolized, keeping everybody safe and putting all the ‘bad guys’ in jail, you know?”

  “Right. Superheroes in blue.”

  “I suppose.” Maclean grinned wryly. “Hey, speaking of superheroes, there’s something else I’ve been wondering. Why did you ask Kyle Davis what the special power was that the kid said he’d like to have?”

  Just then, the waiter came by with their drinks. Again, it caused a lull in their conversation, and again, unlike the waitress at the Trabant, the waiter just took it in stride that he’d arrived at a private moment.

  “There you go, folks,” he said with a smile, then quickly slipped away.

  When the waiter had left, Verraday answered, “Partly it was a test to see if Davis actually had an answer or if he was just making it up, bullshitting us,” replied Verraday. “And partly because I’m just curious about what kind of superpowers kids are into these days.”

  “Why? Did you ever wish for any superpowers when you were a kid?”

  “Sure.”

  “What kind?” asked Maclean.

  Verraday suddenly felt embarrassed. This was the second time tonight that it would have been more convenient to lie to Maclean. But he didn’t want to lie to her. He wanted to tell her the truth. So he did.

  “At first I wanted to have X-ray vision so I could peek through walls like Superman and see what was beneath women’s clothes.”

  Maclean burst out laughing. “You were a naughty boy.”

  “I guess I was,” said Verraday, annoyed to feel his cheeks getting warm.

  “You’re blushing,” she said.

  “What can I say?” he responded with a shrug.

  “So you said, ‘at first.’ Does that mean you wanted a different superpower later on?”

  Now Verraday really did feel like lying, just so he wouldn’t add a depressing note to their conversation. But he was starting to like Maclean too much to be deceitful. So instead he told the truth.

  “But then, after the accident, I wished I had a power ray that could stop a speeding car. I used to imagine myself shooting it out and redirecting Robson’s car away from ours, so I could save my mom and my sister.”

  He paused.

  “Sorry, I didn’t mean to be a downer.”

  “Hey, I was the one who asked,” said Maclean.

  “So what about you?” asked Verraday. “Did you ever wish for a superpower?”

  “Yeah. I wanted to be able to control time.”

  “What, like Doctor Who?”

  “No, though a TARDIS would have been cool. I just wanted to go back in time so I could keep my dad from going to work the night that he died. Then I imagined myself staking out the warehouse and catching whoever started the fire, then turning him over to the police.”

  “And is that when you decided to become a cop?”

  “That is exactly when I decided to become a cop. Now I have another question for you.”

  “Shoot.”

  “When you asked me the other night if I’d ever dated someone who was bipolar. Why did you want to know?”

  “I wondered if you’d had that experience. It changes you.”

  “Who was it?”

  “Somebody I met when I was in graduate school.”

  “A psychologist?”

  “No, a singer in an alternative band.”

  “You dated a singer in an alt band?” she asked, teasing him a little.

  “What?” said Verraday. He could feel the heat rising to his cheeks again. “What’s so weird about that?”

  “Nothing. Nothing weird at all,” she said. “I’m just thinking that you are full of surprises. Picturing you in your wild years. What was her name?”

  “Nikki.”

  “Was she beautiful?”

  Verraday suddenly realized that he was feeling shy about discussing his love life with Maclean, and especially telling her about another woman’s looks.

  “She was attractive, sure,” said Verraday, carefully omitting the word “beautiful.”

  “So how did you find out she was bipolar?”

  “Mood swings were the first indication. Erratic behavior. But I ignored all the signs in the beginning. Just like Kyle Davis.”

  “When did it become obvious?”

  Verraday smiled archly. “As an expert in human behavior, I’d have to say the big clue was the time she waltzed into my apartment at three in the morning with this crazed smirk on her face, stinking of cigarettes and bourbon after having sex with some guy she’d met four hours earlier.”

  “Ow. Sorry.”

  “It’s okay. The only part that bothers me anymore is that I put up with her crap for weeks before it got to that point. It’s too embarrassing to think I was ever that unassertive.”

  “You were young. None of us know anything at that age. And you’re an idealistic and compassionate person. I can tell that just from spending this much time with you. That makes you vulnerable in one way, but in another way, it makes you stronger because you experience and understand life in ways that other people never come to terms with.”

  “That’s a very generous assessment. So now that we’ve discussed my horror story, what was your worst experience with the opposite sex?”

  Maclean suddenly looked serious. “It’s way worse than yours, trust me,” she said.

  Maclean turned toward the waiter and signaled to him to bring the check.

  “Hey,” said Verraday. “You can’t bail on me now.”

  By now the waiter was busy getting pints of Guinness for two happy-looking couples who had just come in together. Verraday marveled at how, with nothing but a smile, a nod of acknowledgement, and an eye movement, the waiter managed to convey that he’d be right with Maclean as soon as he’d finished.

  Maclean turned back toward Verraday. “Seriously. I doubt if you really want to hear this story.”

  “Well seriously, yes. I do want to know,” said Verraday.

  Maclean took a sip of her vodka and soda. “Okay, here’s the straight-up version. I used to be married. Fowler is the reason I’m divorced. He sexually assaulted me.”

  Verraday sat in silence, not knowing how to respond. His impulse was to offer some comforting words, but he knew from training and experience that he’d be more help to Maclean if he just invited her to talk, then let her.

  “How did it happen?”

  “I had been married nearly four years. My ex is in the Coast Guard. He was away for a couple of days on patrol duty. I was working robberies at the time. It was a Friday evening at the end of a busy week. I went out with the people from my squad to have some drinks and let off a little steam. We all got a bit tipsy but not out of control. A couple of hours later, Fowler and a few of his crew showed up. Fowler went to the bar and bought a round for everyone. About half an hour later, I started to feel tired, and I decided to head home. I was too drunk to drive, so I left my car in the lot. I said I was going to get a cab. Fowler played the chivalry card. He told me it wasn’t a good idea for me to be out alone that late at night and that he was going to wait ’til I got a cab. It was raining like hell, so there was nobody on the street and no taxis anywhere. Fowler told me that since he’d only had two dri
nks, he’d give me a ride home. When we got to my place, he insisted on walking me to the door to make sure I got in safely. I tripped going up the steps and fell. I thought I’d broken my kneecap, it hurt so bad. I was surprised and a little embarrassed. I mean, I’d definitely had more than just a few, but I didn’t think I was that sloppy and out of control. Fowler put his arm around me to help me up. I took my front door keys out of my purse, but I dropped them. I bent over to pick them up and started to get the spins. He laughed and reached for the keys, got them and opened the door to let me in. He told me I should go straight to bed. I said I could handle it from there.

  “And that’s the last thing I remember clearly until the next day. I blacked out. I didn’t wake up until the next afternoon, when my husband came home and found me in bed. I had the worst hangover I’ve ever had in my life and the bedsheets were everywhere. I had this vague memory of Fowler on top of me and me trying to fight him off. But I couldn’t remember the specifics.”

  “It’s called anterograde amnesia,” said Verraday. “Fowler probably roofied your drink and had it all planned out.”

  “And I was too stupid to see it.”

  “It’s not your fault. We all have this social contract. That’s what people like Gary Ridgway and Ted Bundy play on.”

  “Yes, but I’m supposed to be smart enough to see through that kind of bullshit.”

  “Fowler’s a colleague, a fellow cop,” said Verraday. “He’s expected to uphold the law, not break it. There’s no reason you would have anticipated him doing what he did.”

  “But everything about it played into my own carelessness. That’s what bothers me the most. I charged him with sexual assault. I had bruises on my arms from where he pinned me down. But because I also had bruises on my knees and legs from when I tripped, Fowler’s attorney argued that it all happened when I landed on the steps. And the judge believed him. I felt like an idiot.”

  “What about semen?”

  “Fowler used a condom. And get this: the judge interpreted that as further evidence that it was consensual sex since Fowler ‘cared enough to use a condom.’ In the end, the sexual assault charge didn’t make it past the probable cause hearing. Fowler’s lawyer argued that I was just trying to cover up my infidelity because I got caught cheating on my husband. That asshole Fowler actually went up to my ex outside the courtroom and told him he was sorry, that he really thought I’d wanted it. Can you fucking believe it?”