by M. K. Gilroy
• • •
“Hey, KC, you going to stare at the pad of paper all day or do you think we might get some work done?” Don interrupts.
I glare at him. He knows I hate that nickname. He just smiles. Don is wearing a tan summer-weight suit, a soft blue shirt with white collar, French cuffs with black onyx cuff links, and a silk tie with diagonal lines. And I do believe he has on a new pair of shoes. He’s styling. No wonder he looks like he’s bounced back emotionally from the trauma of his slightly scuffed Allen Edmonds. He’ll give my outfit disparaging looks all day, even though in my book, there’s nothing wrong with a khaki skirt and a navy polo. Even with a wrinkled collar. Last time I had this outfit on, Don said I looked like a sales girl at the Gap.
If it was anyone but Don dressing this way, I’d suspect he was on the take, because there’s just no way to afford the clothes he wears on a detective’s paycheck. I bet I don’t spend one-third of what he does filling up my closet. And I don’t have kids, unless you count the Snowflakes.
He has a little secret, though. I’ve been sworn not to tell anyone in the department, which makes it all the tougher to keep. Don’s stay-at-home wife doesn’t just stay at home. She also sells a little real estate on the side—actually a lot of real estate on the side—even in a tough economy. I’ve asked him how it feels to be a kept man. He just smiles and tells me it feels mighty fine. That doesn’t mean he wants the guys to know that his wife is pulling down at least twice what he does. I’m happy for him. Don and Vanessa wanted their kids in private school and Vanessa’s gig pays the tuition and a whole lot more.
He looks at his shoes and beams his happy smile and then immediately gets somber.
“So how’d it go this morning?”
“How’d what go?”
He rolls his eyes. “Your group therapy at the donut shop, what do you think?”
“I wouldn’t know.”
“C’mon, Kristen. How’d it go with IA? And by the way, if you’re going to act like a horse’s behind all day, we’re driving separately.”
I start to smart off to him but Zaworski strides around the corner.
“I got an email from Gray,” my boss says.
I hold my breath.
“Sounds like your interview with Internal Affairs was a roaring success.”
“Thank you, sir,” I say, trying to hide the relief in my voice.
“I didn’t announce you won a medal for bravery, so quit thanking me. Now listen, I’ve already had to go to bat with you on Czaka—”
I start to interrupt, but he immediately holds up a hand to silence me.
“And whether or not you support his decision, I don’t want to hear anymore about that either. I also don’t want any repeats of you grinding a kid’s face in the gravel. I’m serious. You’re on a short leash, Conner. On the edge of administrative leave. And if that happens, you won’t land back in homicide in this precinct. No matter how good a detective you are. Understand?”
“Yeah.”
“You sure? ’Cause I can’t tell when someone says, ‘Yeah.’”
“Yes, sir. I understand, sir. I’m sorry I—”
“Save the apology, Conner. I’m not in the mood. Glad you understand. Now how ’bout two of my finest get busy and find me the psychotic bent on terrorizing my city?”
Don and I head for the stairs in a hurry. He gives me a dirty look and keeps a safe distance in case I have political leprosy or something. I think he’s looking for a promotion to the next pay grade. I’m just happy I got my gold shield. I like that Zaworski acknowledged I’m a good detective, but I’m seriously frosted that I got reprimanded by him in public. I would have told Don all about it anyway, but Zaworski doesn’t know that. CPD protocol is that reprimands happen behind closed doors. Except when they don’t. Don can shrug something like this off in an instant. Not me.
At the first landing he says, “We’re meeting Reynolds over at FBI in the State Building. He seems to think it is a better location for our task force.”
“He’s probably right.”
“You been over there?”
“Nope,” I answer. “It’s out of my league.”
“I have and you’re right,” he answers.
“I am? About what—that it’s a better spot or that it’s out of my league?”
“I’ll just leave it at ‘you’re right.’”
Payback is gonna be brutal, Don.
We’re out the back door and into the parking lot. I let him open the back door for me so I can seize the inside position to grab the driver’s side of our assigned Taurus. That makes me driver. Don is still looking at his new shoes and barely notices. That’s disappointing.
As we pull onto Clark Street I tell him we need to stop by the CPD Armory on the way back so I can get in thirty minutes of practice shooting with my new Beretta. I switched from the standard issue Glock 22 to see if I could improve my handgun scores for my personnel files.
“I’m brave and daring when it comes to the job,” he quips, “but maybe not that brave and daring.”
I glare at him, which makes him laugh. I drive in silence the whole way over to the State Building on Wacker, more than a little mad. It’s one thing to gig somebody for something they do well; it’s not allowed when you really can’t shoot worth squat. Dad always said big nose jokes were funny as long as no one in earshot had a big nose. If Don notices my pouting, he doesn’t comment. He does move his feet around a lot to look at his shoes from different angles.
16
“HELLO. MY NAME is Walter, and I am an alcoholic.”
“Hi, Walter,” our circle of seventeen returns.
“By the grace of God and with all of your help, I’ve been sober for three months, two weeks, four days, thirteen hours, and twenty-six minutes.”
He is looking at his watch as he ticks off the time. We cheer enthusiastically, but all the time I wonder how the heck someone could be that exact. Maybe he has a stopwatch feature that he clicks the second he takes a drink just in case it is his last for a while? He beams and then turns serious.
“I’ve lost everything this year—my wife and my boy. He’s six years old now and by court order, I haven’t seen him for eight months, and it doesn’t look like it’s going to be lifted anytime soon.”
He chokes up and pauses. I take him for early thirties. He looks beat-up enough to be at least a decade older. Probably a middle-class kid who lost his way, because he definitely doesn’t look tough enough for the streets. Walter, you better find your way home. You aren’t going to survive out here.
I wonder if his wife will take him back. Sometimes the long-suffering ones hit a wall and when they finally boot him or her out, there’s nothing left of the relationship to salvage. The toughest cases to process are when a hittee decides to stop getting hit and hits back. I had one of those when I was in uniform. The hittee was charged with murder. Everyone, including the district attorney and jury, believed her husband had a well-earned bullet coming to him, but convicted her nonetheless.
Walter talks about some job interviews he has coming up, but I’m not listening very closely. Apparently this group proceeds from person to person around the circle and everyone shares something, even if only a sentence or two. In briefing for the assignment, my under-standing was that all sharing in AA groups was voluntary. I start paying attention again as the twelfth person tells about a recent setback and a recent victory. Only five more chairs and it’s my turn to speak. I’ve read through AA’s Big Book quickly and read most of their brochures. I’m now a subscriber to the AA Grapevine journal and worked with Don, Konkade, and Zaworski to establish a role. Don thought it was hilarious when he said my everyday wardrobe was perfect for the part. Zaworski didn’t laugh and that shut him up. Take that, Don. But I thought I’d just watch and learn the meeting routine my first time out. Looks like I need to think of a quick story. I don’t want to stand out by being the only one who doesn’t say anything.
Eleven women from the prec
inct are going to attend two to three meetings a week. Seems like a long shot since our research department has established that there are over 300 AA locations across the city. That doesn’t include private practices or other church and civic-sponsored meetings that don’t operate under the Alcoholics Anonymous banner.
We’re focusing on a five-mile circle around the crime scene. That cuts the numbers down to forty-eight known weekly or semi-weekly meetings in twenty-one locations. Again, we’re assuming we don’t have all of them accounted for. My assignment is to cover the Tuesday night sessions at Saint Bartholomew’s United Methodist Church.
A married woman speaks next. I’m assuming she’s married because she’s got a big rock on her ring finger. She’s wearing a tight white scoop-front shirt with a push-up bra that’s generating a lot of interest from the men. The group leader, I think his name is Darren, is carefully keeping his eyes on the ground because he knows what we’re all going to think if he gives her the same kind of earnest and attentive eye contact he’s given everyone else. I want to laugh, but stifle it.
“Hi, I’m Bethany, and I’m not sure, but it’s conceivable that I’m an alcoholic. It’s probably more that I just have a . . . a sometimes drinking problem.”
“Hi, Bethany,” I say along with the group. This is going to get interesting.
She describes the various places she hides vodka—her poison of choice—from her unsuspecting husband’s sight. She gives a pretty detailed description of the new vodkas on the market, including a revolutionary grape-based vodka, and which ones are best for the money. One of the reasons she’s not sure she’s an alcoholic is that she doesn’t drink cheap vodka, which she heard is one of the tell-tale signs of being an alkie—her word, not mine. I begin to wonder if she is a liquor salesman and this is a rogue marketing scheme, but she finally gets down to business.
She tells us that she’s explained her slurred speech and erratic behavior to her husband as a hormonal imbalance and that it will take awhile for her doctor to find the right level of meds to get her emotions back on track. She explains that no man wants to talk about a woman’s hormone problems, so he’s bought it hook, line, and sinker. Husband thinks she’s with her friends playing bunko tonight. The fact that she has lied to attend an AA meeting sparks a discussion about whether it is ever right to lie to protect the innocent, which heats up and runs wild for about fifteen minutes. I look at my watch and realize—gratefully—this will save me from having to share. Thank you, Bethany.
I’ve never been to an AA meeting so I don’t know what most of them are like, but I’m pretty sure it’s uncommon for an entire group to instinctively dislike someone. This group dislikes Bethany. The consensus is that honesty is necessary to get better. Then some of the comments on the value of honesty start getting directed at Bethany. One guy leans forward and says, “Bethany, I think you are trying to mask some deep-seated problems with your lying.”
Darren is all for honesty, too, but finally comes to her rescue, saying, “Bethany, thanks so much for sharing. We are honored you’ve decided to meet with us. I think we have time for everyone to share if we move a little more quickly. And by the way, if you don’t get to say everything on your mind tonight, we’ll be open for business next week—and we have a list of other meetings that meet every day.”
Bethany’s cheeks are flushed in anger. I don’t think she was expecting to get ripped to shreds at an AA meeting. I’m no expert on drinking troubles, but I suspect she’s not ready to make a go of this sobriety thing just yet anyway. Maybe I’m wrong. I wonder if her name is really Bethany. There I am being a cynical detective again.
My mind drifts back to the murderer. Wonder what happened in his childhood to start him down this path. Alcoholic mom? Abusive dad? It didn’t matter—all that matters is that we catch him. It’s been five days and so far we have only one clue—and that clue is based on the assumption that Virgil is on to something with this AA lead. I mull that over. Life isn’t fair. About the time you make a decision to get your life together, you get hit from another direction.
“My name is Jonathan, and I am an alcoholic.”
“Hi, Jonathan.”
I look up and over a couple seats. Jonathan doesn’t quite fit in this setting. It’s not that the rest of us here have dark-rimmed and blood-shot eyes, smelly clothes, slurred speech, and a variety of involuntary tics. Bethany, for instance, is neat and trim. She’s got that rock on her left hand—the day she pawns that is the day she’ll know for sure she is an alcoholic. But Jonathan is immaculately dressed in a pair of gray wool slacks with pressed creases, nice polished loafers with tassels, a preppy navy jacket, and what looks to be an expensive dress shirt with sleeves showing exactly half an inch below the jacket. Jonathan actually reminds me a little of Dell, in manner. Even Don might approve of his taste in clothes.
“I’ve been drinking every day since my junior year in college at Northwestern. Never thought I had a problem, even though my grades slipped enough to keep me from getting accepted for my MBA at Kellogg School of Business. Now I’m thirty-eight. I’ve lived all over the country but always end up back here where I grew up and went to school. I’ve been through seventeen jobs—I always get a new one because no one will give you a bad reference for fear of a lawsuit. I don’t think I can count how many relationships I’ve burned through. Some of you are sweet drunks. I’m an angry drunk. That said, I’ve come close, but I’ve never, ever, ever hit a woman.”
He makes that sound like a real accomplishment. Am I supposed to stand up and applaud?
“I’m looking for job eighteen and it’s become clear that alcohol is getting in the way of me finding and keeping the right one. Same with women. I’m jealous of the guys who have wives and kids. I’d like that, too, someday. So about a month ago I finally decided to own up to the fact that I have a problem. I want to change. It’s been two days since I’ve had a drink and I’m dying for one right about now. I especially want to thank Walter. Just knowing you’ve succeeded for more than a couple months is a real inspiration to me.”
Walter blushes and nods in acknowledgment. After a momentary lull, the group breaks into applause.
Jonathan continues, “I’d tell you what else I’m dying for right now, but who knows, maybe there’s a cop present and frankly, not all of my substance issues are legal.”
He laughs and everyone provides at least a courtesy chuckle—though a few are looking at him like they looked at Bethany. I laugh a little harder than necessary out of surprise and to cover up that I turned red when he mentioned cops. I sit back and listen to Jonathan finish up, and the four people to my left tell what’s going on in their lives right now. When it’s my turn I say nothing. Darren politely deflects attention from me and asks if anyone else would like to say something. He looks my direction a couple times, so I keep my head down. I’m mad at myself for wimping out, but I’m thinking about Jonathan. He fits the profile. Maybe I should have a word or two with him just to see if my internal radar sounds an alarm.
Darren looks at his watch and asks halfheartedly one more time if anyone else wants to give a testimony. Sixteen sets of eyes look my way and then give up. I guess that was my last chance tonight. Oh, darn. I missed it. Darren explains the importance of regular attendance, celebrating victories big and small, and having a sponsor you can call when the urge to drink is strong and your willpower is weak. We hold hands and recite the serenity prayer together and are dismissed.
A few attendees make a beeline for the door. Others saunter over to a side table to get another cup of wretched coffee and a store-bought cookie or two from plastic molded trays. Jonathan awkwardly shuffles my way trying to make eye contact. In my peripheral vision I see that Bethany is eyeing Jonathan and is on a path to intercept him before he gets to me. Now I’m positive she’s not really here about staying sober. She succeeds in getting to Jonathan first, but only because Darren cuts me off.
“Your first time?”
“You could tell?”
He laughs. “Don’t worry about not sharing tonight. We’re just glad you came.” So much for not standing out.
“Well, thank you, Darren. Is it always this interesting?”
“Not quite this interesting,” he answers with a knowing smile. “But seriously, let me know if you would like the names of some female sponsors. Sometimes it’s easier to share one-on-one the first time.”
“Let me think about that.”
“Well, don’t think too hard. Really, no one is trying to trap you. These ladies are nice people who understand what you’re going through. They’ll drop anything to be there for you. We love to help.”
“I appreciate that; that’s very nice,” I mumble, sincerely moved by the care and concern I feel.
“Well, I’ll be honest. When we help you we help ourselves. AA has always been committed to service—it’s one of our pillars of recovery.”
“Makes sense.” Why do I feel so awkward? I’m here as a detective, not a participant!
“I forgot to mention at the end of tonight’s meeting, but we have a gift for you.”
“Really?”
He hands me a white chip. It is blank on one side and the other has the serenity prayer printed in blue.
“This is a small token we like to give first-time attendees. It symbolizes your desire to quit drinking, to get better. Carry it with you as a reminder of that commitment—and to come back next week.”
Jonathan keeps looking over our way for an opening, but Darren is now telling me about how long he has been sober and about how scary it is to share for the first time, but how much it really helps. Jonathan gives up on connecting with me and heads out the door. Bethany has been rebuffed and gives me a dirty look. She should have gone to bunko night with the girls.