Uncertain Calm (Uncertain Suspense Series Book 1)

by Jamie Lee Scott

  There would be a lengthy internal review, and investigation of Ortega’s movements and reactions that morning.

  Wyatt thought I’d be able to get back out before the end of the day, so he left to go back to the scene of the shooting before I was done for the day. When he came back to the station, I was already on my way home.

  Luckily, in my downtime, I was able to read the hundred pages Oliverez had given me. I left the signed file on her desk on my way out the door.

  Never in a million years would I think I’d have been interesting enough to have the media camped outside my house. Apparently I was wrong. It must have been a slow news day. It had been a bad morning, and word had gotten out. The reports were convoluted, and the media had put their spin on it, blowing everything out of proportion.

  “Officer Leigh, we heard this was your first day back after your extended leave. You were gone due to gunshot wounds, wasn’t it? How did it feel to shoot someone on your first day back?”

  Were they kidding? I didn’t shoot anyone. I had garden shears thrown at me like a knife, but I didn’t shoot anyone. Hell, I went up to try to save the dude, but it was too late. And all I could do was think this, because I’d been under strict orders not to say anything other than “No comment” to the media. They were so good at twisting and taking comments out of context, and piecemeal investigating the incident, that nothing good could come of anything that was said.

  I looked at the stupid woman, who had her hair all pulled back in a high blonde ponytail, and gave her my most grief stricken expression. “No comment.”

  Next, a young man about five-foot-two stuck a microphone in my face. “How did you feel about your first day back on the job? Did you feel justified in shooting an alleged criminal because a criminal shot you?”

  I stared down at the twerp, giving him my “If you get any closer with that microphone, I’m going to shoot you, too!” look, and moved past him as if he hadn’t said anything.

  Then the cacophony of voices hit all at once, as the rest of the reporters caught up with the early birds.

  Where was Ochoa when I needed him? He’d scare the shit out of these reporters. Talk about chicken shit. For a second, I thought maybe I was getting used to having him around again. But I knew he wasn’t harmless. I knew what happened at night.

  How the hell was I going to feed my horses? I’d have to deal with the news vans watching my every move. Maybe I’d wait until midnight, when they figured I was asleep, and all of the lights were out. I mentally smacked myself up beside the head. I wasn’t going to run and hide from these devastation chasers. I was going to go about my life as if I’d had a normal day at work. Only a normal day at work wouldn’t have been nearly as exhausting.

  I left the crazy people standing on the edge of my property as I unlocked the gate and got back in my vehicle. Once inside, I got out again and pushed the button inside. The gates closed automatically behind me. I wished I’d had my personal vehicle, because I’d left the remote gate opener in my pickup.

  I never bothered to look back as I pulled my cruiser into the driveway and walked to the house. Once inside, I thought about peeking out, to see if they were filming, but I’d hate to get caught on video acting like a prisoner in my own home.

  I couldn’t wait to take my uniform off. I’d forgotten how much effort it was just to urinate while in uniform. That duty belt was a cumbersome sucker, and then there was my regular belt under that. And the vest, being bulky and awkward, didn’t make toilet time any more convenient, either. In a way, being at the station wasn’t so bad, since I had the bathroom within a hundred feet all day. No mad dash to the convenience store.

  I didn’t even have the energy to make a mad dash to my bathroom at the moment. I’d only gotten as far as removing my duty belt before the mental exhaustion hit me like a Mack truck. I flopped back on the bed and stared at the ceiling. I really had to pee, but I couldn’t even muster the energy to care if I peed my pants.

  I close my eyes, and the scene of Bernie being hit, coming toward us, then falling back, played like a GIF on the computer in my head. Over and over, and I couldn’t stop the images. He was dead.

  It wasn’t like Double Ott, who I could’ve cared less was dead. That rat bastard was going to have me gang raped, so watching him die was a blessing.

  Oh, really, if it was such a blessing, why do I keep coming back? Why am I still here? You know what happens next?

  Bernie was different. It didn’t have to end the way it did. Why did I feel so guilty when I wasn’t even the one who killed him? We’d waited all afternoon for Bernie’s mother to come to the station and give us more information about her son, but she never arrived. The M.E. finally called around four in the afternoon to confirm the identity. According to fingerprints, Bernie was a repeat offender. He’d been in and out of the county jail half a dozen times in the past ten years. The M.E. said he was thirty-five years old, and was supposed to be on medications for bipolar disorder and schizophrenia. Only the blood toxicology report showed no trace of the meds he’d been prescribed by his doctors.

  “No guilt,” I told myself. “The man wanted you to catch him. I even think he wanted to die.”

  I’d gotten the energy to sit back up, when my phone rang. I looked at the caller ID and saw it was Wyatt’s number. I close my eyes and considered ignoring the call. He was probably just checking in on me. The saner side of me swiped the screen, and I said, “I’m fine.”

  There was a pause. “Good to know. But right now, I need you to come back to the station.”

  I sat up straight, the wariness vanished in a millisecond. “What’s going on?”

  “Bernie’s mom’s here.” Another pregnant pause. “You’ll want to talk to her.”

  “On my way.”

  I jumped up, fumbling with my duty belt as I strapped it back on. The scenarios going through my head were endless. I was sure the mother wanted to scream at me and Ortega for killing her only son. Not that I had any idea how many kids she had. Maybe she wanted to start a wrongful death suit. It couldn’t be anything good, especially if they were calling me back in.

  “Just give me the gun. I can make it all go away for you. Just like that. No more dreams. No guilt. Nada.”

  And so it started. Ochoa offering to end my suffering.

  There was still a gaggle of reporters at the edge of the property, but none of them chased after me as I drove towards the station. It helped that I’d remembered to grab my gate remote from my truck on the way out, and didn’t have to exit my vehicle to leave my house.

  The streets were relatively calm in the early evening, and the sun had faded into darkness, leaving only the street lamps to light the way. Sometimes I wanted to drive down Clark Street with my lights off, and see just how bright the lamps really were.

  All the shops were locked up tight, and the only real sign of life was the line at the drive-thru at Carl’s Jr. My stomach growled. Maybe it was the lack of food that had me so exhausted. The only thing I’d ingested since the shooting was a couple of bottles of water. And at the thought of water, I went from a growling stomach to a pulsing bladder.

  Great, I should’ve peed before I left the house.

  Arriving at the station, I drove around to the back, to park near the prisoner loading bay. I use my code and entered through the bay door. The restroom was just fifty feet away, and if I didn’t get stopped by anyone, I’d be able to get there before I wet my pants.

  I unbuckled my duty belt as I walked, and held it with one hand as I work my regular belt with the other. By the time the bathroom door close behind me, I was ready to unbutton and unzip. Working with men for so many years, my modesty was long gone. If there’d been someone in the bathroom as I was undressing on my way in, no one would’ve thought twice about it.

  I did have to try to have myself put together as I walked out though, because I didn’t want to run into Bernie’s mom while zipping up like a common man.

  My heart raced, and I had to p
ee again as my nerves hit. Talking to the dead man’s mother was going to suck. I couldn’t even imagine the extent of the woman’s loss. I had never lost anyone close to a death. Both of my parents were still alive and well, and Wyatt was the only other person I loved enough to care if I never saw them again. Sure, I had an older brother and sister, who were twins, but we were never close. And as soon as they moved to Boston, they cut off contact with me altogether. They didn’t even come home for the holidays. But my mom and dad sure took the time to visit them.

  I walked down the hall and tried to remember if I ever even received a Christmas card from either of them. None that I could recall. And yet my parents sent a card every year. My parents even got around to visit me once in awhile.

  I hesitated when I saw Wyatt talking to a wiry woman, wearing a strangely familiar trench coat. I almost gagged at the mother and son matching coats. Taking a deep breath, I kept telling myself, this was a formality. I didn’t kill this woman’s son, and the man wasn’t completely innocent. I walked toward Wyatt and the woman.

  As I approached, the older woman turned slowly to look at me. Mrs. Legault’s eyes were red and puffy, making the crow’s feet that lined them almost disappear. It was her brows that bothered me most. She had pencil thin brows that were all the rage in an earlier decade, but the skin between them was so deeply furrowed, it looked as if gouges had been cut. The stress this woman must have endured over the years showed on her face like a motion picture in the deep lines.

  I didn’t know if I should reach out to shake hands, so I just said, “Mrs. Legault?”

  The line of her thick, dry lips turned to a frown, then she said, “Metty, just call me Metty.”

  For half a second, I wondered what Metty was short for, but I dismissed it when the woman sighed deeply.

  “I’m Officer Harper Leigh. I’m so sorry for your loss.”

  Metty said nothing.

  Wyatt broke the silence by offering, “Let’s go to the interview room so we can talk. Officer Ortega will be with us shortly.”

  I felt claustrophobic in the room this time. Three people made it cramped, so I couldn’t imagine what it would be like when Ortega and his representative arrived. Metty sat down, and rolled her chair to the round table, then Wyatt and I sat on either side of her.

  Again, Metty sighed. It was a resigned sound, not one of frustration or impatience.

  “I tried to save him,” I offered, “but he expired before I could do anything.”

  “I saw the video. I’m not sure what awful thing you said to him to make him spit in your face, but I’m sure you deserved it. You could have let him go in peace.”

  I wasn’t supposed to argue, but I wasn’t going to let this one go. “Ma’am, I didn’t say a word to him. I thought he was dead, and I leaned in to check his pulse. He spat at me when I tried to check and see if he was still alive. He expired within seconds after that.”

  I hoped my tone sounded like a calm explanation, and not defensive. Wyatt hadn’t given me his sideways look, so I must’ve sounded okay.

  “He warned me. If calling it a warning is the right thing. He said he wanted to die, but he didn’t have the guts to do it. He tried once, but it was a pathetic attempt. And I thought it was a cry for help, not the real thing.” She pulled a tissue from the pocket of her coat, and wiped at her nose. “I got him help. Even had him institutionalized for a short time. Got him on the right meds…” Her voice trailed off.

  “Do you know why he was in that neighborhood, Metty? Did he know the woman whose yard he was in?”

  Metty nodded. She sniffed, but didn’t speak.

  “Was she a friend? A girlfriend?” Wyatt asked.

  “She was a nurse at the hospital.”

  My eyes widened as my brows rose. “She was pretty. Did he like her?”

  “He said he was going to marry her.” Metty sat up straight in her chair now. “He said she was the answer to his problems. She was kind, and listened to him.”

  I had seen this before. It was the nurse’s job to be kind and listen, be understanding. And of course she understood; she worked with mental patients every day. Some patients didn’t see the separation. They saw the professional etiquette and compassion, as something more. Apparently Bernie wanted more from this nurse.

  “Did they have a personal relationship?” I asked. Wyatt glared at me.

  “Oh, yes, they saw each other on a regular basis. Bernie never seemed happier than after he spent time with her,” Metty smiled. “They were a good pair.”

  Wyatt opened his folder and looked at the incident report. “Mrs. Legault, according to Eunice Patterson, she’s a nurse at Uncertain Memorial Hospital where Bernie was being treated, but she never saw him outside the doctor’s office. In fact, Eunice is married.”

  Metty twisted the tissues in her hands until they were nothing but shreds. “No, no, that’s not possible. My Bernie said they were getting married. My Bernie never lied to me.”

  Wyatt closed his eyes for a few seconds and I knew he was going to try to find the right words. “Mrs. Legault, did Bernie tell you he was taking his meds?”

  She brightened. “Yes, but they didn’t seem to be doing much good the last couple of weeks. As if he developed a resistance.”

  “How did you know he was taking them? Did you see him?”

  She smirked. “I didn’t need to see him take them. He said he was. I counted how many were left in the bottle at night, after he went to sleep.”

  I looked at Wyatt.

  “What?” Metty asked.

  “The medical examiner said there were no traces of the drugs he was supposed to be taking in his system at the time of his blood draw,” Wyatt offered.

  I was still on the fact that a grown man still lived with his mother. And just because his pills weren’t in the bottle, didn’t mean he’d been taking them.

  “Bernie didn’t lie. I’m telling you, that nurse was going to marry him. They were in love.” She said the words, but her heart wasn’t in them now.

  “Do you think Bernie wanted the police to kill him, and for Eunice to know about it? Maybe when he found out she was married, he wanted to hurt her? Wanted her to feel bad because she’d rejected him? Even though she didn’t, but in his eyes, well, you know.” Wyatt had his patronizing voice down to a science.

  Metty pulled a new tissue from her coat, and blew her nose with a honk that startled both Wyatt and me. She sniffed, stuffing her index finger, wrapped in the tissue, up one nostril to get any excess.

  “If you saw the video, you saw how he turned on us, and threw the shears at me.” I offered.

  “He said he was taking his meds. I don’t understand all of this. My Bernie is gone, and I didn’t even get to say goodbye. You’d think he’d give me a chance to say goodbye.” She stared off toward the wall of the room.

  “If he was as mentally sick as you said, Metty, he may not have even realized he didn’t say goodbye.”

  The tears rolled down her cheek, dripping off her chin and onto her coat. “I’m sorry he did it like this. It was for notoriety, I know, because he wanted to be famous someday. But he was always a coward. Just like his daddy. A coward. I had to be man enough for the two of them, and it still wasn’t enough.” She looked at me. “What am I going to do with all of my time now?”

  She had to be in shock, I thought. She wasn’t making sense. She’d suffered a devastating loss, but she wasn’t mad, just sad, and lost, so very lost.

  “You can help others, like Bernie,” Wyatt said.

  She stared at Wyatt a moment, then said, “Can you please thank Officer Ortega for giving me my life back? I don’t think I want to meet him, because he killed my boy, but I want to thank him for putting Bernie at peace…and giving me a life.” She stood. “Finally.”

  With that, Metty turned and walked out of the interview room.

  It couldn’t have been worse timing, because Ortega had just opened the door to enter. His face was swollen and red, but he tried his best
to clean up before meeting his victim’s mother. I felt a pang of disdain for Ortega. He was a cop, for God’s sake, a man, and there was no room for tears in this business.

  Metty didn’t even look up at him as she walked out of the room.

  CHAPTER 5

  Wyatt spoke into his radio, asking for an escort to take Mrs. Legault to her car, and then someone to follow her home.

  Ortega entered the room, but left the door open. “Was that the man’s mom?”

  I nodded.

  I could see Ortega holding his breath, the way a person does when they’re going to cry. His eyes filled with tears.

  “Take a breath, Ortega.” I could tell Wyatt was trying not to sound irritated. “She’s not going to sue the department, or start a civil suit against you.”

  Ortega blew out a breath and wiped his eyes with the back of his hand.

  “At least as far as we can tell. But you did take away her only son, so you will send her a sympathy card and flowers,” Wyatt added.

  “I can go to the funeral, too,” Ortega nearly whispered.

  “I don’t think that’s a good idea. With today’s lynch mob mentality, it’s best to stay out of public places, and away from the family.” Wyatt straightened his paperwork and stood to leave. “Besides, the investigation into the shooting has just started. It’s a long way from over.”

  “I’ve never killed anyone before.” This time it was a whisper.

  “You were in Iraq,” I said.

  “I was a cook.” Ortega looked at the floor.

  I said, “Oh.”

  What the hell? Ortega had always been going on and on with his stories about his time in the sandbox. He had regaled us with firefights and enemy invasions. I guess he was retelling stories he’d heard, to make himself feel like he fit in with the former combat soldiers, who were now cops. I tried not to think less of him as an officer, but it was hard.

  Wyatt had plenty of his own stories, but he never talked about it. He mentioned once when he returned that the word bitch used to set him on edge, and that it was impossible to keep people from saying it around him. Just hearing the word made his blood boil, and he told me he had to work to contain his anger.