The Fifth Reflection

by Ellen Kirschman

  “Thank you, sir. It’s an important question because witnesses can influence each other’s perceptions.”

  Bucky’s face goes red. “I am not a witness. I am a victim.” He spits the words out between clenched teeth.

  “My apologies, sir. My mistake.” He starts to lay the album on the table. Bucky reaches for it just as Manny pulls it back.

  Pence shakes his head. “Not sure that’s the way to go. I know what he’s trying to do. Taunt the old man, rattle him, get him off his guard.” I can’t tell if he’s talking to me or to himself. “Could be trouble.”

  “One more question before we start, sir. Has your wife had Botox injections?”

  There is a moment, a silent second hanging in the air before Bucky tries to grab the folder from Manny’s hands. Pence races into the room, kicking over the chair he was sitting in. He pushes Bucky off Manny and forces him back into the seat, his hands pressing down on Bucky’s shoulders. “This is the second time you’ve tried to assault an officer of the law. I could have you arrested and I will if you don’t calm down. Your grief does not entitle you to break the law. Do you understand me?”

  Bucky’s black eyebrows lock together.

  “Do you understand me? Say it.” Pence is in full command presence mode. His training as a street cop rising up like muscle memory without thought or hesitation.

  Bucky’s voice is robotic. “I understand.”

  “What do you understand?”

  “That if I don’t calm down, you will have me arrested.”

  Pence lifts his hands off Bucky’s shoulders. “Now, answer Officer Ochoa’s question.”

  “I have no idea if my wife has had plastic surgery.”

  “Botox injections,” Manny corrects him.

  “Or Botox injections. My wife goes to a spa. I don’t know what she does when she’s there. I just pay the bill. Now, may I please see these photos?”

  Manny places the book on the table. Bucky starts to flip the pages.

  “Take your time, please, sir. Look at every picture.”

  Pence pulls out a chair and sits down. Just in case.

  Bucky gives a big sigh and starts turning the pages slowly, making a big show of looking at every mug shot. Suddenly his body jerks. His mouth opens and just as quickly compresses into a thin line.

  “See someone you recognize?” Manny asks.

  “No.”

  “Are you sure? You reacted to something.” Bucky turns the page forward.

  Pence reaches over and flips it back. “Look again, please.”

  “I thought I did, but I don’t.”

  “Could be, sir, that whoever you recognized looks different in person than how they look in the picture. Older, younger, dressed differently. People don’t look their best in mug shots.” Manny moves closer.

  “Don’t tell JoAnn that.”

  “I thought you said you haven’t talked to Ms. Juliette or your wife about this.”

  “I didn’t. I just know how she thinks.” He turns another page.

  Pence stops him. “One more time. Look at that page one more time.”

  Bucky’s hands curl into fists and his chest inflates. Manny and Pence stiffen, getting ready for a fight. Bucky assesses the situation. He’s outnumbered and outgunned. “My mistake,” he says. “This guy looked like someone I used to know. But it’s not him. I’m sure of it.”

  “Which man? Point him out to me.” Pence bends over Bucky. As soon as he does, I see his shoulders slump.

  The rest of the interview is pro forma. The minute he’s finished Bucky leaves the room without a word. Manny and Pence’s words of appreciation and regret for taking up his time bouncing off his back. I go into the conference room.

  “Right page, wrong guy,” Pence says. “Bucky picked the page with Buzz’s picture on it, but he pointed to another guy.”

  “What are the chances that the one person he thought he recognized just happens to be on the same page with Buzz? C’mon, Chief. Let’s call him back. Show him some pictures of Buzz with his hair cut, in a suit, something different.”

  Pence holds up his hand. “Stop, please. We’re not getting anywhere. I know you’ve tried your best, Manny, we all have. No shame, no blame. But the truth of the matter is . . .” His face bleaches with the effort of whatever he wants to say next. “I think it’s time to call in the FBI.”

  “Please don’t do that, Chief. I’m sure it’s Buzz he recognized and he was—”

  “Listen to me, Manny. You’re not getting close. What you’re getting is exhausted and desperate. Trying to make the pieces fit when they don’t. Go back to your regular assignment on the ICAC team. Let the FBI do their magic. They’ve got bells and whistles we don’t have.”

  Manny starts to protest again, and Pence stops him with a raised hand.

  “I run a police department, Manny, not a democracy. I just gave you an order. I don’t need your approval and I’m not interested in your opinion.” He turns to me. “Do you have something to add, Dr. Meyerhoff?”

  “Yes. You can’t just cut him off like this. It’s cruel. He’s put his heart and soul into this case. Let him work with the FBI.”

  Pence’s face turns red. “I am not asking your opinion about my decisions, I’m asking you to comment on these interviews. You’ve got a notebook full of hieroglyphics. Do they mean anything or am I paying you to scribble meaningless crap?”

  Adrenaline washes through my body, stinging my cheeks and sending a hot flush up my neck. I stand. My heart is pounding hard enough to hear. I’m not sure I can speak without my voice quavering.

  “In my opinion, they’re all lying. What I don’t know is what they’re lying about and why.”

  “Very helpful. Anything else?” His voice is dripping with contempt.

  I suck in my gut. Military style. “You are the chief of police and this is not a democracy, I understand that. But neither your rank nor the authoritarian nature of a police organization gives you the right to treat me or Manny disrespectfully because we’re telling you something you don’t want to hear.”

  As soon as Pence leaves the room, Manny turns to the wall, half-sitting on the edge of the table, his back to me. I’m pretty sure he’s tearing up. I want to reach out, reassure him that this is not his fault. Point out that it may be for the better that he is relieved of an assignment that’s causing him and Lupe so much anguish. But I keep quiet. He’s just lost his dignity. He doesn’t want me to see him in tears and he surely doesn’t need a lecture.

  “This is not the end of your career. Only a setback.”

  “You don’t know that. Pence gave me a special assignment. I screwed up.”

  “Bucky Stewart is a powerful man. The chief doesn’t want him as an enemy and he certainly doesn’t want a lawsuit. He has to think about these things and protect the organization.”

  Manny doesn’t answer. Rationality never trumps emotions. Manny’s discovering that he is a limited human being and the bluntness is devastating. He started out in this job, as they all do, thinking he was part of an elite group of invulnerable people, smart, strong, and determined. This is not narcissism, it’s a necessary fiction. Without it, Manny or any other cop couldn’t do what society needs him to do. Or see what society doesn’t want to acknowledge. Manny’s mistake is believing that he could work without sleep. That he didn’t need a break. That the job came before his family. That if only he worked harder and faster, no more little girls would be stolen and killed.

  The door to the conference room bangs open and Pence barges in. “I’m putting you on notice. One more week and then I’m calling the FBI. I don’t want the FBI doing my job for me. I don’t want Bucky Stewart crawling up my ass. And I don’t want my primary investigator to turn into a mental case.” He turns on his heel. “Happy, Doc?” He doesn’t wait for my answer.

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  “THIS IS WHAT I get for not following my own instincts.” Pence’s face turns to a scowl the minute he sees me coming into the brea
k room for a cup of coffee. It’s late in the day and I need the caffeine after a particularly trying conflict-resolution session with the records division. The few cops that are standing around scatter.

  “After he left here yesterday, Bucky decided to take matters into his own hands. If the locals hadn’t shown up Code 3 after Buzz’s meth-head girlfriend called 911, I’d be holding him for homicide.”

  “Manny was right. Bucky did recognize Buzz’s photo. Where’s Bucky now?”

  “After a trip to the emergency room, he’s downstairs in my holding cell waiting for his attorney.”

  “And Buzz?”

  “In the hospital.” He dumps the remainder of his coffee down the sink.

  “Don’t be so hard on yourself or Manny. This is progress.”

  He laughs. “Some progress. What in hell am I going to tell the media? I have two suspects in custody. One won’t talk and the other can’t.”

  I break a dinner date with Frank and stay at headquarters waiting for Manny. It’s going to be a long day. I hear his voice on the scanner telling dispatch he’s on his way back to the station. The police garage is empty of people, only patrol cars and a mournful police dog barking impatiently for his master. The electronic gate goes up and he drives right by me, parks, gathers up his clipboard, and gets out of the car. He jumps the minute he sees me, his startled response in full throttle. I give him a thumbs-up. He gives me a thumbs-down.

  “I guess you heard. If his tweaker girlfriend hadn’t called the locals, Buzz might be dead. My bad.”

  “You couldn’t have predicted what Bucky would do.”

  “I could have pushed harder.”

  “You pushed as hard as you could. You and the chief. I was watching, remember?”

  “I don’t think the chief sees it the same way.”

  He takes a deep breath and starts up the stairs to the chief’s office, one step at a time, like a man on his way to the gallows.

  Frank is engrossed in a photography tutorial by the time I get home and barely acknowledges me as I walk in the front door. I change into my bathrobe, pour a glass of wine, and sit down on the couch next to him. He shuts the lid to his laptop.

  “It’s okay. I’ve seen this one before about six times.” He looks at me. “What’s going on?”

  “I can’t talk about it.”

  What’s the matter with me? Why am I acting like I work for the Secret Service? It’s going to be all over tomorrow’s news.

  “Chrissy’s father is in custody and another man is in the hospital because Chrissy’s father beat him up. Manny doesn’t know who this other man is—I mean he knows his name, but not how he’s related to Chrissy’s father, only that Chrissy’s father recognized him from a photo lineup. You can’t tell anybody that. Swear?”

  “That Bucky murdered his own daughter?”

  “No. That he recognized this man in a photo lineup. Especially not JJ. You can’t say anything about this to JJ.”

  “JJ does not want to talk about Chrissy. Not to me or to the other students. Why can’t you tell me what’s going on?”

  “I just did, didn’t I?”

  “I don’t think so. There’s something more.”

  “It’s Manny. He’s under a lot of pressure. He’s lost his confidence and . . . you can’t tell anybody about this . . .”

  Frank gives me his “I’ve-told-you-a-million-times-that-you-can-trust-me” look.

  “The chief is on the verge of kicking Manny off the case and calling in the FBI. Manny thinks he’s about to lose his job. And I think he’s about to lose his marriage.”

  “And you can do what about any of this?”

  “That’s the problem. I don’t have a clue.”

  At my office, the next morning, I have a message from Bette Randall.

  “Charles isn’t doing well. He keeps asking about you, and it would cheer him immensely if you called and gave him an update about the case you and he talked about.”

  I feel a flush of guilt for not having followed up with him. I skip lunch and call after I finish my scheduled pre-employment screenings. It’s all I can do to keep from warning the eager-beaver applicants, all shiny-faced and enthusiastic, that police work isn’t what they see on TV, all cops and robbers and heroics. But I don’t because they won’t believe me. They’re in that nothing-bad-will-happen-to-me phase. Warning them about job-induced psychological damage is as futile as doing premarital counseling to a couple in full lust mode.

  Bette answers on the first ring.

  “I thought you might be his doctor. I’m glad you’re not. Too much doctoring going on in our lives. Makes it hard to enjoy whatever life we have left. Hold on.”

  I can hear noises, voices, sounds of furniture being rearranged.

  “Just a minute. He’s got the damn phone cord tangled around the leg of his walker.”

  Dr. Randall gets on the phone; I can barely hear him.

  “Here, you old fool. He’s got the ear part to his mouth and the mouth part to his ear.”

  “Dot? Are you there?”

  We go through the usual back and forth banter. I ask how he is and he tells me not to get old. He shouts at Bette to leave him in peace and asks how the case is going. I give him a short summary: everybody’s lying and I don’t know why.

  “People lie to avoid being punished,” he says. “Or to help another person. Or to control someone else. Or simply because they enjoy duping people. Some get away with it because people readily accept a certain amount of lying. For example, if you told me I was looking strong and healthy, I might not challenge you because I prefer hearing that to hearing that I’m old and decrepit.”

  Bette yells at him to stop talking like he was about to keel over.

  “And that I married a witch.”

  I can’t imagine how either one of these two dear people, their endless mock quarrels camouflaging the pain of sickness and the nearness of death, will survive on their own.

  “The police need to do something different. Forget photo lineups. You need drama, fireworks, an element of surprise. The line-up process is too antiseptic. Raise everyone’s level of discomfort, make them afraid that whatever they’re concealing, for whatever reason, is about to be exposed. Get them together. Face-to-face.”

  Pence isn’t impressed with the face-to-face idea even after telling him I consulted with Dr. Charles Randall. Foolish me for expecting him to be impressed that I’ve gone way beyond the call of duty to consult a renowned expert on deception and pedophilia. And did it on my own time.

  “The guy with the doodles? The one who told JoAnn Juliette not to worry about pedophiles? ‘Go ahead, hang up your naked pictures of children. No problemo.’”

  “It’s called a facial action coding system.”

  “No.”

  “No what?”

  “No face-to-face.”

  “Why not?”

  “The last time Buzz and Bucky had a face-off, Bucky almost killed him.”

  “They wouldn’t be alone . . .”

  Pence cuts me off. “Bucky’s lawyer won’t let him say a word.”

  “He doesn’t have to. His presence alone may be enough to spook Buzz into talking.”

  “Buzz has a broken jaw. I don’t think he’s talking yet.” He looks at his watch. “Anything else?”

  “Even if he can’t talk, you can learn a lot from someone’s nonverbal behavior.”

  “Dr. Meyerhoff.” Pence enunciates his words as if he is talking to a mentally disabled deaf person who doesn’t speak English. “Help Manny with his stress. Help Manny with his home life. Do whatever you can. Just don’t try to work this case for him. Or for me.”

  By the time I get home, the evening news is on. “Thought you’d want to see this. They’ve been promoting it for the last half hour.” Frank gives me a kiss and goes back to the kitchen. Something with curry is simmering on the stove. “You just missed your chief who announced that Bucky Stewart has been released on his own recognizance after surrendering his p
assport.”

  Suddenly the TV screen swarms with banners announcing the coming of breaking news with as much fanfare as the coming of the Messiah. A graying man in a gray suit with hair, skin, and teeth to match appears. “And now,” the announcer says, “an exclusive interview with Bucky Stewart’s lawyer.” Hardly exclusive—there are reporters from a dozen stations mobbing the front of the police department. Their cameras clicking like angry insects.

  The gray man steps to the microphone. “My client is a grieving father who was defending himself against the man he believes kidnapped and murdered his daughter. Mr. Stewart should be commended, not arrested, for identifying and trying to detain this dangerous individual. This was a job for the police, not a grieving father.”

  “Can we have a name?” someone shouts.

  “I’ll leave those kind of details up to the police. I can only say that the person currently in custody is a distant relative who has not been seen for years.”

  I think back to how Bucky lurched when he saw Buzz’s photo. And how he lied when Manny asked him if he recognized anyone.

  “We believe this individual is a methamphetamine addict whose motivation for kidnapping Chrissy was to get money to support his habit.”

  “Why did he kill her?”

  “It is up to the police to make this determination. Are there any other questions?”

  The camera reverts back to the news anchor who interrupts the briefing to announce that Chief Pence will shortly be giving a briefing of his own. Frank leaves the kitchen with instructions for me to keep an eye on the curry and not let it boil.

  “I’m going to call JJ before the cops do. She doesn’t have a TV. She won’t know what’s going on.”

  I stir the curry with a vengeance. Frank is back in a matter of seconds.

  “I was right. She didn’t know Bucky was arrested and has no idea who this other guy is.” He ladles some liquid out of the pot, tastes it, pronounces it done, and turns off the burner.

  “Do you think she’s telling the truth?”