“I’m working with him at BAU on this case. He was a young NYPD cop on your dad’s squad. He was with him on 9/11! He told me stories …”
My mind was so blown I could hardly understand what he was saying.
“… about your dad, and Jess, he wants to meet you. He said he’d love to meet you!”
“When did you find this out?” I put my hand on my brow.
“This afternoon.”
“What’s his name? His full name?”
He gave it to me and then said, “What are you doing tomorrow? Want to meet us for lunch? Or dinner?”
Tomorrow? Catching up on cases, maybe? Refilling my tissue supply? Trying to keep my gut in place?
I swallowed hard. “Let me check.”
“Okay, but get back to me soon. He’s traveling day after tomorrow. So let me know, okay?”
As I clicked off the phone, I heard Nate’s voice in my head. God works in mysterious ways indeed. I walked over to my laptop. Luke raised his head momentarily, reacting to my swift move. I Googled “Gary S. Taylor” and scrolled through the search results.
He seemed legit. I found lots of academic papers, all on some aspect of criminal psychology. A bio showed his four years with NYPD and documented his MA from Columbia and PhD in psychology from the University of Virginia. He’d been with the FBI for fifteen years.
I crossed my arms over my chest and paced. What should I do? I wanted to know more about my father. Was Gary Taylor with him when he died? What was it like to work with my dad?
But I was worried. Would Scott tell him about me? Just thinking about that sent a rush of shame coursing through me.
I really wanted to meet Gary. But would I be able to get through it emotionally, with Scott right there?
I looked over to where my big dog lay on his bed. His eyes followed me as I moved. It was like he was wondering if I was anxious, or were we going somewhere.
Scott said we could meet at a restaurant. Which meant no dog. But could Nate come?
Why had I even thought that? What was Nate, my babysitter?
Regardless, my thumb was already punching Nate’s number on my cell phone.
He answered. I told him what was going on.
“What’s hangin’ you up?” he asked.
I told him.
“Seems like this would be a good time to confront that demon,” he said. By that I knew he meant my own fear.
I swallowed hard. “Will you come with me?”
33
I called Scott back and asked him if it was okay for Nate to join us. Sure, he said. He gave me the name of a restaurant and told me to meet them there at six o’clock the next day.
By three o’clock the next afternoon, I had showered, washed my hair, and laid three different outfits on my bed. What exactly did you wear to meet the friend of your deceased father? Luke watched me, his head cocked in puzzlement, as I held one up after the other and looked in the full-length mirror. The only clothes he cared about had to do with SAR.
Nate said he’d pick me up at five. The restaurant Scott had chosen was an Italian place with a terrific reputation, located about halfway between Quantico and my house. I might have opted for the Beef ‘n Brew, but hey, Scott said he was picking up the tab so upscale was fine with me.
I’d already given Luke a good run. Brushed my teeth twice. Found my good sandals. Now all I had to do was pick an outfit and dry my hair.
I settled on a blue, summery print dress, not too girly, but a far cry from the jeans and khakis I usually wore. I brushed out my shoulder-length hair and put on a little makeup. Then I waited. And worried.
Would Scott tell this guy about me blowing my detective career?
I put Luke in his crate when I heard Nate’s car pull up. I don’t know which of us was more surprised when I opened the door. Nate had on dress pants, a really nice light-blue shirt, a blue tie with tiny pink stripes, and a navy sports coat.
His eyes widened when he saw me in my dress. “Hmm,” he said. “You clean up good.”
“I could say the same about you!”
Honestly, he looked great.
Villa Bellini sat perched on a little hill, surrounded by trees, in the foothills of the Blue Ridge. Made of flat, beige stone, the building had wooden trellises covered with vines and little lights inviting people in and a koi pond with a fountain out in front next to the path. The place looked like it was right out of Tuscany.
Scott and Gary Taylor were already there, waiting for us under the front porch. Scott’s handshake with Nate morphed into a quick man-hug. That surprised me. He then turned to Gary, put his hand on his arm, and introduced him to us. “He’s a profiler with the Behavioral Analysis Unit,” he said. “Very smart.”
Gary’s eyes were fixed on me, and I swear, I thought I saw tears. “And you are Mike Chamberlain’s daughter. I am so happy to meet you.” He cradled my hand in both of his, looking at me with deep-brown eyes. Emotion flooded me. This man had known my father! I opened my mouth, but nothing came out.
Scott saw my paralysis and took over. “Gary, this is Nate,” he said. “Nate Tanner. A friend of Jessica’s. And my friend too.”
Gary shook Nate’s hand and then we all went inside.
Once we entered the restaurant, Gary turned his attention back to me. “Your dad was so proud of you. He talked about you all the time. How old were you when he died?”
“Twelve.”
“And now here you are, all grown up.”
The hostess interrupted, guiding us back to a candlelit dining room. The faux-marble walls were covered in murals and art reminiscent of the Renaissance. Lots of wood and rich red tablecloths added to the classy feel. I had to blink to remember we were in the middle of the Virginia countryside and not in Italy.
We sat down at a square table, with Nate on my left, Scott on my right, and Gary right across from me. I slipped my hand into my dressy little purse and fingered the icons I’d brought—my dad’s badge and his pipe. After we ordered our food, I said to Gary, “So, you worked with my dad.” I put the badge on the table.
His eyes fell on that badge. Reaching out, he picked it up carefully, as if he were handling crystal, and he rubbed his thumb across the face. His voice cracking, he said, “Your dad was my sergeant, my mentor, and my friend. He was … he was like a father to me when I was a young rookie cop. I will never forget him.”
Stories began to flow out of him, typical cop stories of arrests, locker-room pranks, long nights of surveillance, working double-shifts, and boneheaded criminals and sometimes coworkers. As Gary talked, he fleshed out my dad for me, taking the outline I’d carried in my heart all this time and filling it in, something my mother never would do.
Our food came, rich and cheesy and warm, with crusty bread and crisp salads. Scott had ordered a bottle of red wine, a fine Sangiovese from Tuscany recommended by the waiter. I sipped it, clutching my dad’s pipe with my left hand while listening to Gary’s stories.
Just as he was getting to 9/11, he stopped short. “Tell me, Jess, what have you done with your life so far?”
I glanced at Scott, who was staring noncommittally at his food. How much had he said? I couldn’t read him, so I swallowed, and gave Gary a Cliff Notes summary, beginning with the devastation I felt when my dad died, my mother remarrying, moving to Virginia, my younger sister. I outlined my high-school career, full of athletics, and, of course, Finn, and my college pre-law program.
I was still clutching Dad’s pipe on my lap as I approached the next part. “I worked for the Fairfax County police for a few years,” I said, my throat tightening. “I left after … after a critical incident.” The voice of shame screamed epithets in my head. I fought for control. “Now I work as a private investigator, and I do search and rescue with my dog as a volunteer. That’s how I met Nate. He’s a war vet, a former military dog handler, and he knows more about dogs than anybody.”
“I’m the dog man,” Nate said, grinning.
Perfect. Gary’s atten
tion shifted. “Really? Tell me about search and rescue.”
The fear gripping my shoulders gradually faded as I listened to Nate’s soft voice talking about SAR. He had so many stories—funny stories, sad stories, stories of bravery and perseverance. Stories in which he was never the hero: It was the dog, or the victim, or in one case, me.
I blushed as he told Gary about finding Joey Washburn, of my endurance and determination. “Grit” he always called it.
Then Scott chimed in, telling about my help with the Sandy Smith case. “She has really good instincts.”
Gary looked at me, nodding his approval. “You are your father’s daughter.”
I felt a momentary rush of pride. But then I reminded myself that pride was not the antidote to shame, that self-esteem’s ability to cover moral regret was inadequate. And so it was that night. Shame lurked in me like a dark pool, ready to suck me in and drown me.
The meal almost over, I ventured one more question. “Would you tell me about 9/11?”
Gary took a deep breath. I knew this had to be a hard subject for him too. In my mind, I coached him—in for four, hold for seven, out for eight.
“It was a beautiful day,” he said. “Warm temperatures, bright blue sky, a perfect fall day. Your dad had agreed to meet me for breakfast at this coffee shop about two blocks from the World Trade Center.” Gary paused momentarily and swallowed. “The girl I’d planned to marry had broken up with me the night before. Your dad, he was the kind of guy who would talk you through things like that.”
Gary went on to describe hearing the boom of the first plane hitting, of their radios going off, of racing two blocks to the WTC. “Your dad, he had one thought—get people out of there.”
They ran into the building, charging up the stairs, helping people down, warning people, directing people to safety, and as he spoke, I saw myself as a twelve-year-old middle school girl, suddenly sent home from school, huddled on the couch, watching my world destroyed.
“I was following your dad way up in the tower,” Gary said, “when we heard a terrible roar. He turned, looked at me, and shoved me back down the stairs. The tower came down, right on top of us, and that’s the last I saw of your dad.”
Gary wiped away tears. The other two men sat like frozen statues. Then Nate said, “Now that’s a brave man. And you too.” Gary glanced at him, acknowledging his compassion.
“They never found him,” I whispered.
“I know,” Gary continued. “Your dad was a hero. I’ll bet he got a hundred, maybe two hundred people out of that building. He never quit. And he saved my life for sure. He pushed me down those stairs, and I ended up in rubble, but not in the worst of it.”
“Were you hurt?” I asked him.
Gary nodded. “I was trapped for a while. I just remember I couldn’t breathe, didn’t know where I was, and the pain was terrible. Eventually, firefighters got me out. I spent two months in the hospital and in rehab with a broken leg and some other injuries. But I would have been dead if it were not for your dad.” He paused. “All that time in rehab, I kept seeing your dad’s eyes, boring into me, willing me to live.”
By this time, tears spilled out of my eyes. Nate handed me his handkerchief. Then he looked at Gary. “And afterward?”
“I went through every emotion you could have—anger, grief, despair, rage, hope, guilt.”
“Guilt?” I said, interrupting. “Why?”
Gary raised his eyebrows. “Because I didn’t die with your dad.” He closed his eyes momentarily. “Trauma is a strange thing. You feel things that aren’t rational.”
I felt Nate’s knee bump mine under the table.
“I had a long period of counseling, which is what got me interested in psychology. I kept wondering what made people do evil things. Or heroic things. Because I’d seen them both.” He gestured with his hand. The way he was talking, I halfway expected to see an anchor tattoo on him somewhere. “I wanted to know what was in the soul of man. Eventually, I went back to school and started working to get my advanced degrees.”
Our server came by to see if we wanted dessert, which we didn’t. Scott took the check, refusing our offers to pay for our own meals. I thought that was awfully generous. I wondered what he wanted in return.
“Thank you for telling me about my dad,” I said to Gary, slipping the badge back in my purse, along with the pipe. I scooted back my chair.
“One more thing.” Gary reached in to the breast pocket of his suit and pulled out a small black book, about the size of my Moleskine. I watched him, curious.
“That morning, when we had breakfast and I told your dad about my struggles, he shared something with me. I knew he’d been going through something personal…”
“What was that?” I asked.
Gary shook his head. “It doesn’t matter what. He told me he’d actually gone to see the chaplain about it, a bunch of times, in fact.
“Your dad said the chaplain gave him this book, and it had helped him a lot, and the morning of 9/11, he gave it to me. I put it in my pocket to read later. Needless to say, I forgot all about it. Six months later, I ran across the plastic bag the hospital had put my clothes in. When I checked my uniform pockets, I found this.” He gestured with the book. “I wanted to give it to your mom. By then I couldn’t find her.”
“She’d remarried. We’d moved,” I murmured, feeling a stirring of emotion.
“I’ve kept this book all these years. Now I want you to have it.” He handed me the book. “You can see your dad’s signature on the inside. And every mark in there, every underlining, is his.”
Opening the cover of that little book and seeing my dad’s unique signature rocked my world. Stunned, I looked at Gary. “This was my dad’s?”
He nodded.
I looked at the book again. It was a pocket-sized copy of the Gospel of John.
34
We drove home in silence, Nate and I did. He must have sensed I needed to process all that Gary had told me. He couldn’t have known I was in the middle to shifting all that emotion—my grief, my loneliness, my deep sorrow, even my confusion—to another place.
“You okay?” Nate asked as he pulled up in front of my house. “Need to talk?”
“No, I’m fine. Thank you for coming with me.”
“You made it through. Good for you,” he said.
“I’m glad you were there.”
“It was right interesting,” Nate said, and he gave me a quick kiss on the top of my head and left.
I went inside and let Luke out. What had my dad been going through that had prompted his visits to the chaplain? I had a feeling it had to do with my mom. I was determined to get to the bottom of it. My anger burned.
Luke needed a run, or he’d be restless all night. But I needed to call my mom. I decided to compromise. We ran for half an hour. And I chose to believe nine-thirty was not too late to call her.
She answered on the second ring. “Jess, how are you?”
“I’m fine, Mom. Listen, do you remember a friend of Dad’s named Gary Taylor?” I paced as I talked.
“No, I don’t think so …”
“He would have been a young cop, an NYPD rookie.”
There was a pause. “I may have heard his name. I’m not sure. Why do you ask?”
“I met him tonight.” I told her about our mutual friend, about dinner, about the stories he told about my dad. “Did you know this, Mom? Why didn’t you ever tell me exactly what happened? Why didn’t you tell me he was a hero?”
“I guess … I guess I thought it was too traumatic for a young girl.”
“Oh really? You were protecting me? How about you were protecting yourself!” My voice was sharp, indicting. “Something else, Mom. Gary said Dad had been going through something personal. He didn’t give me details. He just said Dad had talked to a chaplain about it. Any chance this had to do with you, Mom? Maybe, you and Frank?” I spit those words out. I might as well have been a cobra.
Even on my cell phon
e I could hear her sharp intake of breath. I struck again. “Tell me the truth, Mom. It’s too late for lies.”
Our conversation went downhill from there. She tried to tell me I had no idea what went on in their marriage. I suggested I knew more than she wished I knew. She tried to defend herself; I wouldn’t let her. When I finally hung up on her, I was in a rage. It was like my mother had killed my dad, not 9/11.
As I stood in my apartment, shaking with anger, I recalled something Nate had said to me once. He said, shame runs so deep, it takes a strong emotion, like anger, to overcome it.
Anger was coming easily to me right now.
After I hung up, I paced around my apartment, and when I couldn’t stand to be inside any longer, I went outside. Luke found a stick to chew, and I sank into an Adirondack chair and watched the stars.
The soft night air eventually modified my mood. I began thinking about my dad. I somehow couldn’t imagine he’d be happy about the way I’d just treated my mom.
I slept badly that night. Luke eventually crawled into my bed to try to ease my restlessness. The warmth of his body against my legs anchored me, but still the images kept swirling in my head—my dad in his NYPD uniform, the towers falling, gray smoke billowing into the sky. My mom and Frank, and then, that rainy night when I let my partner die.
It was like the universe had created clips of the horror movie of my life. When I woke up, I was exhausted.
Nate called me later that day, wondering how I was doing after our dinner with Gary and Scott. I told him about the dreams, and he listened quietly. Then he asked, “What was the book Gary gave you?”
I hesitated. “I don’t know, really. I haven’t looked at it yet.” That was a lie. I knew what it was; I’d read the cover. I was still shocked that it had been my father’s. We were not a church family.
Probably because I needed to feel strong again, I told him about my phone call to my mom, about calling her out on what I assumed was her affair.
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