by M. K. Gilroy
I went home, did my makeshift workout, and took a long shower. I read through my notes. If you cry, this would be a good time cry. But I don’t. If you yell and cuss and throw things, this would also be the time for that. I just yell and throw things. I did pray but I still didn’t feel very spiritual.
I tried to get back into the Child novel but my mind was still racing around the crime scene, so I put the book on my nightstand and turned off the light. I fell asleep with light jazz playing in the background to soothe my frazzled psyche. I had put on an old Larry Carlton CD, On Solid Ground, which I like a lot for the tunes, but also because it is guitar- rather than sax-driven. But sleep didn’t come even when Larry played “Josie.”
Just thoughts of Sandra. I don’t know what time I drifted off, but it wasn’t that far away from time to wake up. No wonder I was late to church.
Kaylen didn’t know that. I’m not mad at her. I love my sister, both of my sisters, fiercely. I just wish they understood me a little better.
12
“SO WHAT’S GOING on with Dell?” Kaylen asks.
I am chewing a large bite of grilled chicken, so I don’t answer right away. I’ve already devoured the twice-baked potatoes, fruit salad, broccoli and cheese, three Sister Schubert’s dinner rolls with plenty of butter, and a few bites of Kendra’s macaroni and cheese.
I think that macaroni and cheese is all the kid eats. And not just any brand. It has to be Kraft or the noodles don’t taste right, she claims. Her parents need to make Kendra eat green stuff—and not just lime jello. If I had to eat vegetables growing up, then Kendra should, too. If they’d make her eat more healthy foods, I’d eat healthier, especially when I sit next to her at Sunday dinner.
My news reporter sister, Klarissa, is carefully cutting another microscopic sliver of chicken, probably not big enough to choke a lab rat. She puts it silently in her mouth and chews slowly. She has to be just going through the motions; there’s not enough meat to require more than two to three bites before swallowing. Most of her food is still on her plate and there wasn’t much to start with. Kaylen should be grilling Klarissa about her producer pushing her to stay skinny for the camera, rather than bugging me about Dell.
Kaylen gets distracted by four-year-old James, who needs another glass of milk, so I’m off the hook for a second. I stick another bite of chicken in my mouth so I still have an excuse when she turns back to me. Why doesn’t she ask Klarissa about Warren? That’s a far more interesting question, as far as I’m concerned. Warren is Klarissa’s on-again, off-again boyfriend. He’s the sports guy at a rival television station. They met at a local media awards banquet. He’s about ten years older than Klarissa, but fit and handsome. Great teeth. I’m a firm believer that all good gifts come from God, but not those teeth. Is it possible to have teeth that are too good? Too straight? Too white?
Apparently he was a good enough college quarterback at Western Illinois that he got drafted by the Redskins. He has told me numerous times that he stayed in “the league”—which means the NFL, he explained, in case as a mere woman I find sports lingo confusing—for three years. He doesn’t mention the fact that he never took a single snap in a regulation game, but then I’m being snippy again. I remind myself that if you were good enough to get drafted in the NFL, then you were one heck of an athlete. He’s been a sportscaster for thirteen years now, since his playing days ended at the ripe old retirement age of twenty-five.
“Well?” Kaylen asks me again. She isn’t going to let this drop. “You were going to tell me about Dell?” Mom and Klarissa are focused on me now, too.
I chew extra slowly and finally answer her question after a fake cough and long drink of Diet Coke with a clever question of my own: “I was?”
“You were. At least I thought you were.” She’s trying not to get exasperated.
“What about him?”
“He was at church with someone else. I didn’t know you two had broken up.”
“I didn’t know we two were together.”
“Well, excuse me, but he’s been coming to Sunday dinner for the last few months.”
“Because my family invites him.”
“And, if I’m not mistaken,” Kaylen soldiers on, “you two were supposed to have a big day trip planned yesterday.”
“I guess I forgot,” I answer sarcastically. “Oh, and maybe a little murder case I’m officially working got in the way.”
“Was there a murder at the Amish village?” my mother asks in horror. “What happened?”
I laugh out loud and spit Diet Coke on my now-empty plate. Mom, you have got to get your hearing checked. The kids, Kendra and James, think that’s hilarious and screech in delight. Kaylen is not amused.
“Give it up,” she demands. “What happened?”
Given her no-nonsense tone, everyone at the table looks at me soberly.
“Where’s Mr. Dell?” James asks me earnestly. “I like him.” “That’s because he gives you a dollar for your piggy bank whenever he comes over,” I say.
“He does?” Kaylen asks, surprised. James’s head bobs up and down, but he doesn’t make eye contact with his mom due to an instinctual understanding that too much discussion could lead to the end of the gravy train he has set up.
I am hoping we are off on another subject, but now my brother-in-law, Jimmy, is curious. “Dell seems like a good guy. He’s obviously crazy about you. What happened?”
What happened? What happened? Let it go, people!
Do I sense an undercurrent of recrimination in his tone? It’s no secret that Dell has done all the work in our relationship. I’m just not crazy about him. I like him. But that’s it. I’ve never been dishonest with him or led him on. So why are people trying to make me feel guilty? Everyone is looking at me, including Mom, so I guess I’m trapped and have to say something. But it’s not like this has been a big deal to me. Bringing a revenge date to church was more than a bit of a surprise, but hey, maybe she likes learning about farm tools from another century.
“I wish I could give you guys the scoop,” I say. “But there’s no story. Everyone move along. Nothing to see here.”
“So did the trip to the Amish village put you over the edge or what?” Kaylen asks. Is there a retro obsession with horse and buggy culture? Is the energy crisis that bad? Did no one hear me say I’m on a murder case?
“As I tried to communicate earlier, we didn’t really take that drive at all.”
“Oh?” Klarissa’s eyebrows are arched upward. Should I tell her that will cause wrinkles? That would give her something more important to think about. Klarissa always complains that male newscasters are allowed to age but female newscasters have a short shelf life and spoil when the wrinkles start showing up.
Everyone is staring at me, including the kids. “What?” I ask. “I just said we didn’t go.”
“Did Dell have to go in to work?” Mom asks. “Because I know he’s really been looking forward to seeing it.”
“Actually, I got called into work, Mom. Right after Kendra’s soccer game. I have a job, too. And in case you weren’t listening before, I was assigned the case that’s on the front page of today’s paper.”
“You’re doing security when the president comes to town?” Mom asks.
“No. I’m not guarding the president, Mom. I’m working the murder of the young woman in Washington Park.”
“Yeah, I heard two of the producers talking back in the green room,” Klarissa says. “Her boyfriend shot her.”
“I didn’t catch that story,” Jimmy says. “That sounds awful.”
“No guns were involved, Klarissa.” That’s all I’m saying.
“Well, that’s good, I hate guns,” Mom says, oblivious to the gap in her logic. “Now tell me again why you didn’t take the drive with Dell? I think he’s a sweetheart.”
James saves me. He’s been playing with a straw and suddenly spews milk in a fine mist all over the table. I knew he liked my little show with the Diet Coke so he deci
ded to try it himself. It’s my turn to crack up, trying to hide my laugh behind a hand. Kaylen is up in a flash and James’ exultant smile turns to a plaintive wail to let her know it was all a big misunderstanding. She marches him from the room, encouraging him on with a swat to his rear. Kendra knows she’s not supposed to smile, but does so anyway. Jimmy gives her a reproachful glance and she guiltily clamps her lips in a straight line. Smart girl. Mom looks at me from the corner of her eyes, without turning her head my way. I know she thinks I’m being a bad influence on the kids. I bite down on my lip, even though I feel like defending myself against a look. After an awkward moment, Jimmy gets the conversation rolling again. He’s good at that.
Thankfully the table has lost interest in Dell and our torpedoed Amish excursion. The Washington Park murder is forgotten, too. We talk about the Bulls and the Cubs and about the great spring weather, even though it has been all over the charts temperature-wise. For a few minutes we discuss why some people believe in predestination and why some don’t believe in eternal security, which somehow segues to a new discussion on whether Klarissa should consider interviewing for the news anchor job with the number two television station in the Baltimore market, which could be one step closer to a national position. News reporter in a market like Chicago is doing very good for a twenty-eight-year old; news anchor puts her at the top of the food chain.
I want to have a serious discussion with Jimmy. He may be a bit naïve and sheltered, but he is a smart guy. I want to ask him why people do what they do. Especially evil people who cut up innocent women. I also want to ask him if he thinks it is ever okay to tell a lie, like when it is for a good cause or just by omission or part of the job description as a detective. I’m not sure Jimmy knows what to make of me, so he rarely engages and listens like he does with others. So once the conversation transitions to Klarissa’s career and then back around for another go at the weather, I know I’m not going to get his attention and my mind drifts away. Maybe I should make an appointment to talk to him in his office. I do listen carefully to a joke Kendra tells me in a loud whisper when she loses interest in big people talk, too.
“Knock knock.”
“Who’s there?”
“Canoe.”
“Canoe who?”
“Canoe come out and play?”
I laugh enthusiastically and interrupt something Jimmy was saying for just a second, but he soldiers on. I do fear Kendra has inherited the same gene I got for joke telling. Hopefully she’ll have a better left foot in soccer than I ever did.
Kaylen and James return—and I’m glad my nephew looks no worse for the wear—as Jimmy tells everyone about Kendra’s three goals. She beams. I beam. James is ready for some attention and insists that he plays soccer, too.
When no one pays attention he yells, “I scored a thousand,” tired of his sister hogging the limelight.
I know how he feels about the limelight. When you have two beautiful sisters that have legs and smiles to stop traffic at the Indianapolis Brickyard on race day, you feel a little ignored sometimes. Klarissa is a princess’s princess. And Kaylen is married to Jimmy King—Dad used to call him King James—so that makes her a queen. I guess I’m the court jester. But today I want to stay in the shadows.
I look around at my yammering clamoring family. We’ve had a tough couple of years and took another punch in the gut in the past month. There’s an empty space at the table and maybe in each of our hearts. Not sure any of us feel whole right now. But we’re strong enough to laugh together—and fight together. And maybe that’s as good as it ever gets.
My mind moves to Sandra Reed and the family she left behind—a mom and dad in Columbus, Ohio, a brother in San Clemente, California, and a sister out in Lake County. Only one thing might help them a little over time . . . to know the monster who murdered their loved one is off the streets.
God, help us . . . help me tell them we caught her killer.
13
“SO YOU’RE TELLING me you did not push the back of the suspect’s head toward the ground with force sufficient enough to cause multiple abrasions and bruising to his facial area?” “No, sir, that’s not what I said.”
It’s Monday morning and I wasn’t in the greatest mood to start with. I’m not a Monday morning groaner as a rule. I don’t go out partying over the weekend as a few of my colleagues are wont to do—and it shows on their faces on Monday mornings. I wasn’t in a sour mood because I don’t like my job. In fact, I love my job.
This particular Monday morning just started wrong. First of all, after not enough sleep on Saturday night and church and Sunday dinner with my family, I spent the rest of Sunday afternoon and early evening in the situation room back at the precinct. Ever since the advent of CNN and around-the-clock cable news, plus a new generation of cop shows, you have to name things with a little more flair. It’s not good enough to go to a conference room. It’s got be something dramatic, as in, a situation room.
I got home at eight, ready to do a light workout with my home exercise equipment, which consists of a floor, gravity, and the weight of my body. Then I was going to relax with my favorite TV show and get to bed early. But I procrastinated and by the time I was poised to do a set of one-legged squats, Dell stopped by to talk things out. What things? It was quarter to nine. He knows that at quarter to nine there are only fifteen minutes until the only show I watch every week comes on. I am the only person in America who doesn’t know how to schedule a show on TiVo for the whole season and I’m not sure I pushed the record button for this week, so I probably won’t get to see it later. He also knows I need some alone time after a typical Sunday with my family. I really needed some alone time last night.
I knew from his loud knocking and the way he entered my apartment that he was mad and going to vent. I’d never seen him mad before. And vent he did. Hey, I never pledged undying love and devotion. I never even gave a hint of reciprocity. I never let the guy steal a full hug or kiss—though that hadn’t seemed to be on his agenda. I didn’t know if it was refreshing or strange. I’m used to hand-to-hand combat to keep the wolves at bay. Is that why I’ve let this charade continue—because he’s been so easy to control? And even if I did miss a Saturday drive in the country, for obvious good reasons—and admittedly, my effort to get a hold of him and explain was late—it wasn’t me who brought a revenge date to church. Why am I the bad one?
After I had heard enough of the pain and suffering he’s experienced at my hands and a little bit of analysis on my inability to bond, I came back with both guns blazing. I explained clearly that any pain and suffering he was feeling was self-induced. I let him know I liked him, but reiterated that I did not return the level of feelings he professes toward me. I let him know we had covered this territory before. And I let him know that I thought his church date was cute and that perhaps he needed to devote his considerable attentions to her.
“And we’re not going out anymore.”
That stopped him in his tracks. His response was interesting: “You know it’s only you, babe. I was hurt and just wanted to get your attention. It was stupid to bring Carrie to church. Will you ever be able to forgive me?”
I thought I was going to puke. What would it take for him to get it? I pushed him out the door at eleven. He wanted a kiss. I obviously didn’t. When I yanked my head back, he got the message and stomped down the stairs.
I was so tired I didn’t brush my teeth or hang up my clothes. I just fell in bed and squirmed under the covers. When I woke seven hours later, it felt like my teeth had a film to rival barnacles on the underside of a cruise ship. When I stumbled to the bathroom and took a look at myself in the mirror, it was downright frightening. That’s how I greeted Monday morning after my alarm went off like a tornado warning at six.
It didn’t help that when I arrived at my cube, with just fifteen minutes to spare before my Internal Affairs interview—make that interrogation—there was a large Post-it note on the center of my computer screen with a message w
ritten in all caps:
DEAR DETECTIVE CONNER—HAVEN’T MEANT TO LEAVE YOU OUT! JUST WANTED TO LET YOU KNOW THAT YOU ARE ALWAYS WELCOME TO BE A PART OF AARP! (ANGRY AND RAGING POLICEPERSONS) WE FEEL YOU’VE GOT LOTS OF PROMISE. YOU’RE EVEN BEING CONSIDERED FOR A MENTORING ROLE. DETAILS TO COME!
That was bizarre. Who would write that? I looked around a couple times and then crumpled it up and threw it away. I wasn’t going to give someone the satisfaction of seeing me get angry. For once.
• • •
I am in an interview room usually reserved for suspects. I guess that makes me a suspect. Tom Gray of Internal Affairs and I have been sparring in a twelve-by-ten room, sitting across a six-foot folding table centered in front of a large mirror—which anyone who’s ever seen a cop show knows is one-way glass—for ninety minutes now.
If anyone from my detective squad—and the curiosity, and yes, embarrassment is killing me—has been watching, they’ve got to be close to nodding off. I’m not a cooperative suspect. Just as I was leaving my cubicle, Zaworski and Konkade stopped me and in hushed tones advised me to say as little as possible. That had me wondering if I should be worried. I’m still asking myself the same question at a time when the interview should have long been over.
After introducing himself just as Tom Gray, and giving no rank, which is atypical for an officer of the peace, he opened a thick manila file and leafed through it for almost ten minutes in complete silence. I knew he was trying to create an awkward silence where I would blurt out a confession of premeditated and unmitigated brutality. Exactly what I would do if I were in his shoes.